


chasing daybreak (until the one where you'll return to me)

by sunnilee



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Azure Moon Route, Beach Holidays, Bets & Wagers, Crimson Flower Route, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Garland Moon Festivities, Hair Dyeing, Kimi no Na wa. | Your Name. References, Memories, Missed Connections, More Tags as I update, Museums, Mutual Pining, Not Really Character Death, Past Lives, Pining, Promises, Single Parents, Sylvain goes on dates, Temporary Character Death, and every spy trope that comes with it, because this is a reincarnation au..., box dye in hilda and dorothea's hair salon? absolutely not, but also in-universe, but the roses have thorns, but when you have lines in which they don't exist..., each line used is a sentence from the poem, getting to grow old together and having a happy family is end goals ya know, i somehow managed to fit an obligatory beach episode in but i have no regrets, it kills me and it hurts so good, it's the least they deserve, kids are ruthless but would you have it any other way??, mercedes and marianne open a humane society, solo endings, splitting the kids hurts and y'all know it, spy AU, sundresses in the greenhouse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 34,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24609703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnilee/pseuds/sunnilee
Summary: sylvgrid reincarnation au: inspired by 25 Lives - TongariIn each and every lifetime, Sylvain searches for the light of his life.Even if he doesn't know it.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 296
Kudos: 94





	1. the very first time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very first time I remember you, you are blonde and you don’t love me back.

Sylvain watches the flames of life temper Ingrid into the knight she was always meant to be.

From their childhood, watching her run around with bugs in her hair and dirt on her dress. To their adolescence, sitting outside her door while she remains locked inside her room, stricken with grief caused by Glenn’s death. Even through their time at the academy, while she combs through letters from her father with exasperation and frustration, of countless suitors to save her lands.

Then, when he sees her again as he and Felix fight tooth and nail against the hordes of bandits blocking their path to the monastery for the Millennium Festival, Luin flashing in her hands as she dodges arrow after arrow. Once the battle is finally over and the Blue Lions are reunited, she gives him the brightest smile and he momentarily forgets how to breathe.

And finally, as the victory horns sound, Sylvain watches the figure sitting tall atop her pegasus flying closer and closer, the sun catching in her blonde hair, until she lands five feet away. All he hears is her rapid footsteps and the clang of their armor as she crashes into him, the blood on her face smearing onto his neck as she crushes him to her.

His own arms wrap around her and he rests his chin atop her head, his heart pounding in his chest. She pulls away and gives him a blinding smile. “You’re alive.”

He smiles back. “You are too.”

They’re searching each other’s faces and Sylvain is promptly reminded of their last conversation before they marched on Enbarr.

_When we’re side by side like this, I feel—I don’t know—oddly at ease._

_I know what you mean, it’s probably because we’ve been friends for so long._

_That must be it. Let’s never change. Friends forever?_

_Absolutely. No matter what happens, we’ll always be friends, Sylvain._

His chest tightens further because as he tossed and turned in his bed last night before the final battle, their words floating through his head, it still felt like there was a piece missing. Then, she took out several anti-cavalry units heading his way earlier on, eyes shining with fierce determination, he figured it out.

His stomach is churning, and his mouth is dry. Sylvain is frightened and terrified out of his wits, but his mind refuses to let him rest until he says it out loud. “I love you, Ingrid.”

Her lips part and her eyes widen. “Sylvain, I…”

Her voice is barely a whisper, and it’s drowned out by the voice in his head that suspiciously sounds like Miklan. _You really are a worthless fool—_

Ingrid’s hands grip him tighter and he’s brought back to her broken expression and Sylvain wonders when he will ever learn to keep his mouth shut. Her hands move to his face and he feels his heart twist. “Sylvain, I love you too, just…”

Her green eyes find his and his heart stops beating. “Just, not the way you need me to. The way you deserve.”

Ingrid presses a soft kiss to his forehead and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

She untangles from him, but keeps a hold on his hand and squeezes. “We… we should help clean up. Find the rest of the Lions.”

His tongue feels like sand, but he squeezes her hand back. “Ingrid, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

She tugs on his hand and his voice dies in his throat as she looks at him, that same fierce determination from before. “No, don’t apologize for being honest.”

He gulps. “But, you—”

Ingrid shakes her head firmly. “I meant what I said, Sylvain. No matter what happens, we’ll always be friends. I promise.”

Sylvain’s heart restarts as she squeezes his fingers tighter until he nods jerkily in response. “Friends forever.”

She smiles weakly and lets his hands go. “Good. Now, let’s find the rest of our friends.”

She turns on her heel and mounts her pegasus, flying off into the setting sun to search for their comrades. As he watches her go, her promise continues to ring in his ears.

True to her word, Ingrid stays in contact as they rebuild Faerghus, his heart full as she finally achieves the dreams she’s always longed for.

Sylvain watches as she shed her duties to House Galatea and become a knight of House Blaiddyd, forming an elite order of pegasus knights who served as personal bodyguards to the nobility.

She never took a husband.


	2. the next time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next time you are brunette, and you do.

Mercedes crouches low on the floor, gently reaching out her hand to the new stray that was brought in yesterday evening. Predictably, the poor thing shies away and tucks himself into the furthest corner of the kennel he’s been placed in, body curling itself around the broken leg Marianne found him with.

Sighing, Mercedes quietly refills the bowl of food and water. She studies the dog’s matted fur and scared eyes, as he watches her actions carefully from his spot by the wall. The way his body tenses makes her grimace.

_He’s been abused before._

Once she steps back, the dog visibly relaxes, and Mercedes feels her heart twist. _It’ll take him a long time to recover. To trust again._

Rearranging her skirts, she returns to the front to organize his file. Starting up her own branch of the Humane Society with Marianne proved to be a lot of work, but it was worth it, being able to find new homes and new loves for these discarded little ones.

It was tough in the beginning, just the two of them, but their friends pitched in so many volunteer hours, they were able to manage.

 _Speaking of which…_ Mercedes checks her watch, remembering how Annette said she was going to bring a new friend along this weekend during her shift. Annette, being her dearest friend since their elementary school years, constantly brought in new volunteers every chance she got, to help support her best friend. Mercedes hums to herself. _She ought to bake some more sweets for her next week._

The front door pushes open and Mercedes finds herself face to face with someone oddly familiar. The new girl clutches paperwork in her hands, eyes taking in her surroundings with awe. Once they land on her, she strides forward, her braid swinging behind her. “Would you happen to be Mercedes?”

Mercedes lets her curiosity fade into the background. “Yes, I am. How may I help you?”

The other girl smiles brightly and holds out her hand. “Hi, Mercedes, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Ingrid, the friend Annette told you she was going to bring? Annie sent me a text saying she was running late because her cat was being fussy this morning… so I should go ahead and find you first. To give you the paperwork and everything.”

“Ah yes, Felix is quite the temperamental one. Annie truly does have a lot of patience with him. Well, Ingrid, it’s nice to meet you too. Thank you for coming in and for your interest in helping out. We always love having volunteers, especially ones who have taken care of animals before. Annie mentioned you used to care for horses?”

The expression on Ingrid’s face changes briefly, before it relaxes back into a neutral smile. “Yes, I did. Grooming horses used to be one of my favorite past-times before things got too busy.”

Mercedes nods amicably and reaches out for Ingrid’s papers, scanning through them quickly. “Oh, you attend Garreg Mach University as well?”

Surprise crosses Ingrid’s face. “Yes, I do. Do you?”

She smiles. “Well, I graduated a few years ago, but it is where I met Marianne, the co-owner of this branch. You do seem familiar somehow, have we met before?”

“I’m not sure… perhaps we’ve met in passing?”

Mercedes searches her memories carefully, then it came to her. “Oh! Were you at the Harvest Festival in Fhirdiad maybe a decade ago? I recall watching one girl impressively win the eating competition without breaking a sweat! Though she did have darker blonde hair, but if I’m remembering correctly, she looked a lot like you.”

Ingrid flushes brightly. “I can’t believe you remember that… but yes, that was me. My hair used to be blonde when I was young, it’s been steadily growing darker over the years and, and now I have this.” She gestures to her now brown hair and shrugs. “The stereotype ‘blondes have more fun’ never really applied to me, so I’m not too upset.”

Mercedes laughs lightly and shakes her head. “Well, nevertheless, I am still impressed to this day. I’m glad I can tell you in person this time. Though, if you’re the same year as Annie, why hadn’t I seen you around campus?”

Ingrid smiles sheepishly. “Ah, that might be my fault. My family isn’t very well off, so I was on a sport’s scholarship for the Equestrian team, but I sustained an injury with my horse during one of the competitions and,” she takes a deep breath before continuing, “well, I can’t really compete anymore, so I lost my scholarship. I had to take a year off for recovery and to rehabilitate my horse, then I had to apply for other grants to afford the tuition.”

Mercedes holds her hand out and Ingrid takes it. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Ingrid... the entire situation sounds incredibly difficult. How are you doing now?”

Her eyes are watery, but she gives her a brave smile. “Well, I just moved back to campus, so… better. I’m doing better.”

Mercedes squeezes her hand and smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.”

A few moments of silence pass between them and an idea pops into her head. “Say, Ingrid, while you wait for Annette and for me to go through your paperwork, why don’t you keep one of our new guests company? Marianne brought him in last night and he’s been through a lot. Perhaps your expertise could help coax him out?”

Ingrid flushes again. “I really only have experiences with horses, but I’ll give it a try.”

Smiling gently, Mercedes leads Ingrid back to the kennels. Before pushing through the door, she speaks softly, “he seems to startle easy, so be as quiet as you can.”

Ingrid nods solemnly and her gaze trails over to the ball of ginger fur huddled in the corner. Her heart twists painfully and she has to take an extra second to breathe.

“Are you all right, Ingrid?”

Ingrid blinks and nods. “Yes, sorry… I just, needed a moment.”

Mercedes smiles and gestures toward the kennel. “Take as long as you need. Marianne didn’t find any identification on him, maybe you can come up with a name he’ll respond to.”

“Oh! I—” Ingrid whips her head around, but Mercedes has already gone back to the front, and she’s left alone.

Biting her lip, Ingrid crouches by the kennel and watches the ball of fur tense up at the sound of her clothes. Tentatively, she reaches out a hand and coos, “hey, little guy.”

At her voice, his head cautiously lifts up and Ingrid feels her heart stop when she spots his fearful brown eyes. Moving slowly, she sits fully on the ground and whispers, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

* * *

Weeks pass by and Ingrid is a regular weekend volunteer, to Mercedes’ delight. She’s been marking the progress Ingrid’s been making and Mercedes couldn’t be more happy. She walks into the back and feels her chest warm at the sight of a certain guest’s nose bumping against Ingrid’s hand, tail wagging more than usual.

As she approaches, she sees him tense for a fraction of a second, before relaxing under Ingrid’s fingers as she gently scratches his ears. Mercedes smiles. “I see he’s trusting a little bit more now. He’s rather affectionate, isn’t he?”

Ingrid laughs softly as he licks her fingers when she moves to scratch under his chin. “He really is. Though from what Annette tells me, he isn’t like this with every volunteer. He’s still got some ways to go.”

Mercedes watches carefully as the dog darts to the corner of his kennel, taking note of his lingering limp, and nudges a ball toward Ingrid, eyes brighter than before. “Has he responded to any names?”

Ingrid nods as she pushes the ball lightly to the far end of the kennel, laughing as he jumps toward it, whole body shaking with his tail. “He seems to like ‘Sylvain’ the most.”

Mercedes tilts her head. “Sylvain?”

Ingrid shrugs as the ball is brought back to her. “I don’t know… it kind of felt like a lost memory. So, I tried it and his ears perked right up.”

Smiling, Mercedes nods. “Sylvain it is.”

* * *

Months go by and Ingrid remains one of Mercedes’ most dedicated volunteers. Sylvain continues to make progress, allowing her or Marianne to take him for daily walks without much fuss, but he still remains the most affectionate on the weekends when Ingrid comes in.

He’s subdued during the weekdays, especially when potential adopting families come see him. He still shies away at sudden, loud noises, and he definitely still cowers when a large number of people surround him.

Yet, every weekend without fail, when Ingrid returns, he’s already by the front of his kennel, tongue out and tail wagging, waiting for her to see him. Mercedes updates Ingrid on his weekday activities and she shakes her head as she crouches low, extending her fingers to scratch his chin, exasperated smile on her face. “What am I going to do with you, Sylvain?”

* * *

A year later, Annie and Ingrid graduate. Instead of going out to celebrate, the two of them are with Mercedes at the Humane Society and Sylvain is a bundle of energy, darting between the three of them, tail wagging fiercely as he runs circles around Ingrid.

He climbs into her lap and tries to lick her face. Any other time, Ingrid would gently calm him down, but she lets him this time. _It’d be the last time… since she’s moving back to Galatea._

Mercedes and Annie notice the change in her mood, and seemingly, so does Sylvain, as he settles down in front of her and bumps her arm with his nose. Ingrid sighs and pets his head absently. “I’m moving back to Galatea… so I won’t be able to keep coming back here.”

Annie’s face falls, but Mercedes reaches out and covers Ingrid’s hand, squeezing tight. “We’ll always be here, if you ever have time to visit.”

Ingrid nods and takes a shaky breath, eyes wet. “Any homes for Sylvain?”

Mercedes shakes her head. “Unfortunately no, he still seems to shy away when too many people come by to visit.”

Ingrid nods again and smiles weakly as Sylvain climbs back into her lap, even though he’s clearly too big to fit comfortably. Mercedes bites her lip. “Since he first got here, he seems to be the most comfortable with you.”

Sighing, Ingrid closes her eyes. “I was afraid of that.”

Annie taps her cheek thoughtfully. “Would _you_ be able to adopt him, Ingrid? Take him with you? I’m sure he’d like that, seeing you every day instead of just two days per week!”

Ingrid looks down at the furball in her lap and snorts. “Yeah, you would like that, wouldn’t you?”

Sylvain looks back at her innocently, but his tail is wagging again, and it shakes his entire body and hers. Mercedes laughs. “He loves you a lot, doesn’t he?”

Ingrid scratches his ears and kisses the top of his head. “I love him too. I’ll recheck my finances and check with my father. Make sure no one in the family is allergic to dogs.”

She turns her attention back to the wiggling bundle in her lap and smiles again. “How does that sound? You want to come home with me?”

She receives an excited bark and another lick to the face in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be like, 600 words.
> 
> ...here we are.
> 
> the little pupper I had in mind is a [Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever](https://www.akc.org/dog-breeds/nova-scotia-duck-tolling-retriever/) and now I want one


	3. the color of your hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a while I give up trying to guess if the color of your hair means anything.

Sylvain doesn’t even wince as the blonde sitting across from him shoots up and empties her entire iced coffee onto his head and storms out the door. He blinks through his dripping hair and calmly reaches for the towel in his bag that he specifically prepares for this.

He watches the disgruntled pink-haired barista behind the bar throw up her hands in frustration and disappear into the backroom for a mop. Sylvain smiles. _She’s so easy to rile up._ Sure enough, she reappears three minutes later with her bucket and approaches him, eyes glaring holes into the side of his head.

Water splashes over the edge of the bucket with her mop and she growls at him, “that’s the fifth drink this week alone, and it’s only _Wednesday. What on earth is your—”_

Sylvain hides his amused smile. He can tell she’s bitten back her scathing words because they don’t _actually_ know each other. _It’s considerate of her to try anyway._

Instead, she sighs heavily and wipes away the coffee dripping down the table. “How many more times are you going to make me clean up these messes?”

He leans back and presses another napkin to his face. “Nobody asked you to do that. Heck, I thought you enjoyed it. Besides, you’re real good at it. I’m excited to continue working with you,” his eyes dart to her name tag and he smiles, “Ingrid.” _Huh. He feels like he should’ve remembered that name considering all the times he’s been here. And all the times she's cleaned up after him._

Ingrid’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline and she explodes, “do you mean to imply you have _no_ intention of acting a bit more respectably?”

 _Now_ he winces. “Please don’t yell like that. Everybody’s staring at us.”

She’s fuming and he just _knows_ she has another lecture on the tip of her tongue. He glances worriedly around the coffee shop, though he’s not sure why. He makes a scene of himself here almost every single day, considering he takes all of his dates here to break up with them. Sylvain couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about this place felt familiar… made him feel safe. _Despite the raging barista who looks like she’s about to kill him—_

To his surprise, he watches her straighten up and take a steadying breath. “ _Nobody_ asked me to do this? This is my _job,_ Sylvain _._ Now, if you would _kindly_ make my _job easier_ ,” her eyes flash to his. “ _Stop_ breaking up with girls here, hm? Or at least _try_ to be a little more courteous to the other customers here.”

He blinks at her. “How do you know my name?”

She stares at him like he’s stupid. “You’re in here almost every day with a new girl who curses your name in some shape or form. As much as we all _love_ reality TV, _some_ of us come here to get some work done, not be your live audience.”

The glint of her hardened green eyes stirs something in him, and he stamps it down quickly. Instead, he gives her a sickly sweet smile. “Fine, I promise I’ll try to change. Are you happy now?”

She scowls at him and rolls her bucket away without giving him with a response. Sylvain smiles watching her back walk away from him.

_Oh, he’ll change alright._

* * *

In the next week, Sylvain has doubled the amount of girls he’s brought to the café and has doubled the amount of drinks dumped onto his head.

He internally dances with glee as Ingrid becomes more and more furious at him with each passing day, muttering under her breath how she’s spending her _entire_ allotted break-times to clean up after him. He always greets her with the most infuriating smile he can muster when she trudges over, mop in hand.

Except for today.

Today, the brunette he’s breaking up with decides to put on more of a show than the others. _Funnily enough, he still doesn’t remember her name._ He already grew cautious when he saw her order a scalding hot coffee in the middle of summer, so he dragged this out as long as he could.

But as _soon_ as her hand brushed along the inside of his thigh under the table—his hand wrenched her wrist away from his leg, eyes cold. “I think we’re done here.”

Of course, the girl spluttered in anger as the other customers in the shop start to whisper. Breaking out of his grip, she predictably reached for her hot coffee and threw it in his face.

He did _not_ expect it to still be so hot. “Ah, _fuck_ —"

“You’re a prick, you know that? A _real_ piece of work.”

Sylvain is still wiping the hot liquid from his eyes when he gave her a cruel smile. “Ha, that’s rich. Doesn’t really mean much coming the person who wanted to bleed my bank account dry.”

The other girl paled and clutched her empty cup harder. “You’re an _asshole—”_

He scoffs and fixed her with a glare. “ _Please._ Save your breath. Texting your friends about the ‘ _Gautier net worth’_ on the first date? Don’t make me laugh.”

The girl flushes a bright red and the whispers around them grew louder. In one last ditch effort, she threw the cup at his head and stormed out of the store.

Sylvain let the paper cup hit him and clatter to the ground. He grimaces. _He left his towel at home_.

A few of the other regular customers send him concerned glances, but ultimately, none of them move to help him.

To his surprise, a white towel falls over his head and he sees a familiar mop by his feet. Her wry voice sounds closer than he expected. “Are all the girls you date like that?” His heart skips a beat.

He forces his arms to move and he clears his throat, bringing the towel to his face. “More or less.”

Sylvain peeks at her from behind the towel, chest tightening oddly at the frown on her face. “You need better taste in women then.” Her eyes dart to his and he is _thankful_ for the towel blocking the sudden blush that floods his cheeks. “And a _lot_ more tact.”

He shrugs and keeps his burning face hidden from her. “What, you have any ideas about that? Taste in women, or otherwise?”

He just _knows_ she’s rolled her eyes at him, despite not even facing him. He smiles at her scoff. “Have some dignity, will you?”

With her back turned, Sylvain runs the towel quickly through his hair and down his front where coffee was still dripping. He _doesn’t_ expect her to whip around and study his face, eyes softer than usual. His throat dries. “You know, this wouldn’t keep happening if you were even the slightest bit genuine. Try it sometime.”

Sylvain watches her walk away, his heart beating strangely in his chest.

* * *

Over the next few months, Sylvain enters the coffee shop with less and less girls, but with more and more heart problems.

Now that he’s _not_ having drinks dumped onto his head, he actually has time to sit at the bar and watch Ingrid make drinks, even chat with her when she’s not taking orders at the register or drive-through. He’s learned that she has several older brothers, that working in this coffee-shop is only one of her many jobs to support her family, and the _only_ reason she even _remotely_ sympathized with him about his dates was that she had her own fair share of disasters, set-up by her father.

Then, she began to sit with him during her breaks. _Those_ are the times when his chest hurts the most.

Today, he doesn’t see her pink hair behind the counter, so he takes a seat in a booth and pulls out his laptop. He may not care for his family, but he _damn_ well won’t let some Gloucester intern outclass him in his own division.

Just five minutes into revising his proposal, he catches pink hair in his periphery as it slides into the seat across from him. He doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile. “On break already?”

When she doesn’t answer, Sylvain looks up and is only slightly embarrassed to find, _not_ Ingrid, but another pink-haired girl with pink eyes, smirking slyly at him. He gulps and his grimaces when he doesn’t see a nametag. “Sorry. Wrong person. Can I help you?”

The other girl’s smirk widens and ignores his question completely. “You know, I’m only saying this because you’re one of our best customers by buying an absurd amount of drinks to just get them dumped all over you—but there are better ways to get her attention than sitting at the bar staring at her like a lost puppy.”

Sylvain splutters, “I-I don’t know what you mean. Who are you anyway?”

The other girl waves her hand dismissively. “Right, and my hair is actually green. Face it loverboy, you _like_ Ingrid.”

He feels heat climb the back of his neck and he wills the blood to stop pounding in his ears. His eyes scan the coffee shop quickly and grimaces. “You still haven’t told me who you are, _and_ I don’t _like_ her.”

Sylvain watches this mystery girl sigh and shake her head. “I’m Hilda, Ingrid’s roommate. I normally only work weekends, but she wasn’t feeling well today so she asked me to cover for her. As for _you_ , Mr. I-come-to-this-café-every-day-to-see-her-smile, just admit that you like her and this’ll be easier for _all_ of us.”

His flush spreads across his face and he resolutely continues to _lie through his teeth._ “I _don’t_ like her. She’s not my type.”

Hilda raises a lazy eyebrow. “And your type is blondes and brunettes who don’t give a shit about you?”

His jaw drops and Hilda sighs heavily. “Well, if your _shallow, stubborn_ ass needed confirmation, her hair isn’t really pink. She lost a bet to me last summer and I get to color it whatever I want for the next two years.”

He still hasn’t picked his jaw up off the table and Hilda brushes off her skirt as she stands. Glancing back at him, she winks. “She’s actually a blonde, and she _does_ give a shit about you.”

Sylvain stares at Hilda’s back as she walks away. When she disappears into the backroom, he turns to stare blankly at his laptop, his heart fluttering violently beneath his ribs.

* * *

Next week, Ingrid gets to work two hours later than usual at Hilda’s insistence. Hesitant at first, especially because Hilda had already covered for her last week, she was adamant about going. _Plus, she hadn’t seen Sylvain in a while—_

Her roommate leveled her with a knowing smirk and waved off her concerns, stating that she would cover the opening shift, so Ingrid could sleep in. Still exhausted after being out sick, she was grateful for the extra rest and she didn’t think too much of it…

 _Until_ she saw Sylvain sitting at the bar with two drinks in front of him, leg bouncing restlessly on the stool. She couldn’t help the frown that formed on her face and the sudden tightness of her chest. _Is he dating again?_

After that one particularly nasty encounter with hot coffee, Sylvain had actually taken heed of her words. Less and less drinks got dumped on his head and slowly, they stopped altogether.

He started sitting at the bar so he could watch her work. He told her about his stifling family, briefly touched on his disinherited brother, how he had trouble making lasting connections because of his family’s reputation, and to his own surprise, he tells her how oddly detached he felt from everyone and life itself. Until he found this café and its dark blue walls. Something about it, making his heart ache, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

She was too struck by the gold in his eyes in that moment when he smiled at her, _‘isn’t that weird?’_

Ingrid was far too busy willing the churning in her stomach to stop to tell him that she felt the same.

Sighing heavily, Ingrid pushes through the door and strides straight to the backroom, despite hearing Sylvain call after her. She finds Hilda lazily scrolling through her phone and idly greets her as she sets down her bag. Hilda’s eyes flash up to hers and she grins, her eyes pointedly darting out to the redhead Ingrid brushed past.

Flushing brightly, she hastily grabs her apron and walks back out front, still tying it as she steadily avoids his gaze. She briefly thanks her lucky stars that two new customers had walked in after her, so she could busy herself with their orders…

But Ingrid feels his eyes burning into her back as she pretends to ignore him.

She’s granted another twenty minutes of respite due to the morning service, but eventually, she runs out of customers and she runs out of excuses. Sighing shakily, she turns to him and finds him tapping his fingers against the wooden counter, eyes staring blankly at the two cups in front of him. _Still no date in sight._

She clears her throat and his eyes jump to hers. “Hi.”

A small smile forms on his face and it is _not fair how it makes her pulse spike._ “Hi.”

Ingrid fidgets in place as he continues to study her face in silence, like he hasn’t seen her in a lifetime. Her eyes fall to his drinks because she does _not_ want to think about how the open collar of his shirt affects her breathing. She clears her throat again. “Date today? I haven’t seen you with two drinks for months.”

Sylvain blushes curiously and his eyes drop from her face. “Um, not exactly? Well, it’s not _not_ a date… b-but I also don’t want to assume anything! Oh _Goddess_ , this is a _terrible idea_ —”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow as his blush spreads down his neck, biting back a smile. “You’re being weird. Have you always been this weird, and I just never noticed?”

“No! I’m pretty sure. I don’t think so?” He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes looking everywhere but her. “By the by, have you, you know, fallen for anybody recently?”

She snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been out sick. What are you even bumbling on about?”

She watches him make eye contact with someone over her shoulder and groan, covering his flaming face. Ingrid whirls around, but Hilda is still on her phone, twirling one of her pigtails around her finger. Slowly, she turns back to Sylvain in confusion, only to find one of his drinks pushed toward her.

Her heart stops.

“Sylvain?”

She looks at him and he’s still covering his face, but his ears are as red as his hair. His muffled voice comes from behind his hands. “Read the label.”

Blood pounding in her ears, Ingrid reaches out and turns the cup toward her and she inhales sharply.

_Go out with me?_

_Yes: drink it_

_No: dump it on my head_

Her eyes jump back to him and she finds Sylvain peeking at her through his fingers, taking in her expression. The longer she stares at him in silence, the more tense he gets, and he finally lets his hands fall away from his face. “Look, I’ll clean up the mess this time, so just—”

Ingrid brings the cup to her lips and takes a small sip. _Chamomile._ _Her favorite._

Humming lightly, she sets the drink down and smiles, warmth blooming in her chest as she meets his gaze. “My lunch break is at 1.”

She turns to greet the new customers that walked in and misses the gigantic smile that spreads across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a different idea in the discord today that I planned to write on the weekend, and I was promptly slapped upside the head to write this one instead. n o w.
> 
> me: this will be a fun little side project for de-stressing, low time commitment!  
> also me almost 3000 words later: um


	4. even if

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because even if you don’t exist, I am always in love with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief mention of implied miscarriage
> 
> please proceed with caution if necessary!

Sylvain walks through the halls of the museum, absently rubbing the center of his chest as his eyes rove over countless paintings and statues, searching and searching.

_For what?_

He sighs and shakes his head, quickly ducking behind a marble pillar when he spots the pink head of hair he was trying to avoid in the crowd of people he was trying to blend into. Groaning, he drags a tired hand across his face, already regretting his reflexive need to flirt and date anyone who has blonde, brunette, or pink hair.

He never truly understood _why_ he’d been drawn to those particular hair colors, nor why he relentlessly sought them out.

Well, he _knew_ why he sought them out.

He just prefers to ignore the fact he was always desperately chasing after something to fill the deep-seated emptiness that threatened to cave him in.

It’d always been that way, if his mother’s teasing stories were to be trusted. Apparently, he’d been a relatively happy baby. Never really causing a fuss, sleeping and eating without a care in the world, his eyes focused on taking in the world around him. Then, when he was two years old, he started having inconsolable bouts of crying every single year on January 4th.

The first time it happened, it was midnight, just barely seconds into January 5th, when his sharp cry split the quiet night and his mother came running. After frantically checking his room for any disturbances, his mother picked him up and placed him on her shoulder, bouncing him and gently rubbing his back.

He only wailed louder, his face growing pink with exertion.

Smoothing down his tufts of ginger hair, she cooed at him, “oh love, my baby, what’s hurting you?”

In between his tears, his hands fisted in his mother’s hair and he whimpered, “heart hurts, mommy.”

Tears still leaking out of his eyes, his mother kept rocking him trying to soothe his sniffles, when a soft knock sounded at the door. The door cracked open and a blonde head poked her head in, green eyes filled with concern. “Mrs. Gautier? Would you like some help? I know you have an important meeting to attend with Mr. Gautier in the morning…”

“Oh, Illana! Thank you for the offer, I didn’t realize Sylvain woke you, on your first night too—” Looking down at her son, who had suspiciously quieted when their newly hired live-in nanny entered the room, wet eyes locked onto her. She bounced him again, but his eyes didn’t waver.

Illana stepped fully into the room and held her arms out for him, cradling him as his mother passed him to her. “It’s quite alright. It’s what I’m here for, to make sure this little tyke stays out of trouble, isn’t that right, Sylvain?”

Based on what his mother said, he didn't reply, but he did stop crying.

From then on, he’d always cry on January 4th, and Illana was the only one to temporarily stop his tears until she left the Gautier’s employment. He’d clutched her hand tightly on her last day when he was six, mouth trembling. “Do you have to go?”

Her sad smile only deepened the already gaping hole in his heart, the one that still wasn’t entirely filled by her presence. The one that started all of his crying to begin with. “I’m sorry, Sylvain.” She ruffled his hair affectionately. “I have to go take care of my sister in Galatea. She’s been coping alone for the past few years after losing someone precious. You understand, right?”

Even though he didn’t, he nodded anyway.

With one last sad smile and a kiss on his forehead, she was gone.

And his eyes started straying to every head of blonde, brunette, and pink hair he could find, trying to find someone, _anyone_ , to make his chest stop aching.

He spots the pink head of hair whip her head in his direction and he curses under his breath. Hunching in on himself, Sylvain slips into the emptier hallway of portraits, painted by the famed Ignatz Victor of the Leicester Alliance centuries ago. He’d never been too invested in the history of Faerghus, already fed up with his family’s talks of their supposed line of nobility.

That, _and_ because he couldn’t shake the feeling that history had been rewritten, somehow, someway, to fit a different narrative.

His mind flashes back to the green hair of his college professor and the firm set of his mouth when he questioned the accuracy of the Goddess’ will and her teachings.

Needless to say, he scraped a barely passing grade in the mandatory introductory course and never looked back.

 _Portraits_ though, he could get behind. He always appreciated paintings, especially the ones with dynamic brush strokes that made the subject look alive. It made him feel… more connected.

 _As connected as he_ could _feel to a motionless canvas._

His eyes flutter over the enormous paintings of Fódlan’s leaders, briefly lingering longer on the portrait of Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, the crown prince of Faerghus, his heart tugging strangely in his chest.

Swallowing thickly, Sylvain follows the sensation, his feet taking him to the adjacent hallway dedicated to the Blue Lions of Garreg Mach Monastery. He scans each face briefly, his breaths picking up as the twisting in his chest worsens, _déja vu_ washing over him.

Then his breathing stops completely.

His gaze locks onto vibrant green eyes, framed by golden blonde hair. The portrait of a pegasus knight, in flight while raising a glowing lance to strike, completely consumes him. It consumes him so wholly, so entirely, he forgets where he is.

He stumbles closer, blood pounding in his ears.

Sylvain doesn’t remember bringing his hand up, as if brushing his fingers against the canvas would bring the figure in the portrait to life.

Make her real.

His throat tightens, a name he hasn’t used before escaping from his lips.

“ _Ingrid…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, when my brain listens to me on "make it short!!"
> 
> for a fic that's tagged as sylvgrid, there's really only been one chapter with them being cute together...
> 
> I'll work on it :')
> 
> ch inspired by the monstrously amazing au by [nicole_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicole_writes/pseuds/nicole_writes), [We Stand, Fate-Tested](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23041318/chapters/55102780)  
> au of an au writing continues...


	5. together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I remember most fondly those lifetimes where we get to grow up together

Sylvain’s head rests in Ingrid’s lap as she’s propped against a tree on the Galatea estate, fingers idly weaving white roses into his hair like when they were kids for the Garland Moon.

His eyes are closed, breathing even, as he listens to the squealing laughter of children as they play with their grandfather. The fingers in his hair move to cradle his face and he sighs contently. “What are you thinking about?”

He inhales deeply, catching one of her hands and lacing their fingers together. “You.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes at him, but a smile grows on her face anyway. He doesn’t stop, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Us.”

Another kiss, this time to the inside of her wrist. He smiles against her skin, feeling her pulse jump against his lips. “Our kids.”

He hears her scoff lightly, her thumb brushing against his cheek. “Honestly…”

Sylvain grips her hand tighter. “And _honestly_ … I was thinking about when these white roses for me changed for you.”

He opens his eyes, seeing her look back at him in slight confusion. “Changed?”

He sits up, gaze flickering over to where their daughter climbed onto the shoulders of her grandfather, and their son swinging off his hip, waiting for his turn to perch atop Count Galatea. “You know I never liked my birthday much, since I can’t stand the heat and all… but I always looked forward to the garlands you wove for me every single year since we were little.”

She doesn’t respond, so he looks back at her. Taking in the furrow of her brow, he can tell she still doesn’t follow. It’d been an idle passing thought, but now he wants to _know,_ some part of him suddenly desperate to hear it from her _._ “When did those roses for me change from ‘roses for a friend’ to ‘roses for a lover’?”

 _That_ gets her to flush and his eyebrows shoot into his hair. “Ing?”

Her eyes dart away from his and she tries pulling her hand away, but he holds fast onto it. “Ingrid? What is it?”

Face red, she resolutely keeps her mouth shut, eyes looking everywhere but him. “It’s… embarrassing.”

Laughing lightly, he tugs her into the circle of his arms, chin resting on her shoulder. “What could possibly be so embarrassing, Ing? We’re _married._ With _kids._ ”

That gets him an elbow in the side, but he doesn’t back down because the blush has spread down her neck now. “C’mon, please? I’ll tell you when it changed for me?”

Ingrid pulls back slightly, green eyes only slightly apprehensive. She bites her lip, and he has to remind himself their kids and his father-in-law are just a few feet away.

She ducks her head into his neck and mumbles something into his skin. He smiles and hums. “What was that?”

Ingrid is tense for just another moment, and then sags against him. She leans away and picks up one of the remaining white roses from her pile, tucking it behind his ear. The blush burns even brighter on her cheeks when she meets his eyes. “They never changed for me, Sylvain.”

His heart freezes. “What?”

Suddenly shy again, Ingrid looks away from him and her hands fall away from his face. Before he can get too distraught about it, her fingers find his and lock them together, her voice soft, “those roses for you… they never changed for me. They’ve always meant the same thing.”

Sylvain’s head is spinning, and he feels like he’s opened an ancient box in his heart he was wholly unprepared for. An old, _old_ , part of him wants to recoil, like he’s revisiting a painful memory that’s been seared into his entire being.

But the _other_ part of him, the part of him that’s _here_ with her, _belongs to her_ , stutters out, “W-what do you mean?”

She sighs with an exasperation that feels older than they are, and she holds his gaze. “It means I’ve loved you since the very first time I wove a rose garland for you.”

The buzzing in his ears stops and that ancient part of him quiets.

He thinks he stops breathing too. “The very first time?”

Ingrid smiles softly at him and his heart restarts. “The very first time.”

With an energy he didn’t know he possessed, he crushes her into him, as if bringing her closer could keep his heart from bursting through his rib cage. Her own arms wrap around him just as fiercely and he feels tears leak out the corner of his eyes, his breaths stuttering in his chest.

She pulls back just so, her own eyes glassy but with no less adoration, as she wipes his wet cheeks. “Why are you crying?”

He laughs hollowly and shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

He nuzzles into her hands because he really _doesn’t_ know why. At least, not in a way he can explain.

But it feels an awful lot like _relief..._

And he is so, _so_ in love with Ingrid.

Her hands leave his face again and he blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears. He’d dislodged a few roses from his hair, and he stays stock still as Ingrid carefully weaves them back in. His blood thrums beneath his skin as she works, his heart skipping a beat when she smiles at him and drops a kiss onto his nose when she's done. “What about you?”

He can’t stop staring at her and her glittering green eyes. “What about me?”

Ingrid purses her lips and all he wants to do is kiss them. He almost does until she fixes him with a glare and a finger stopping his lips from reaching hers. “Oh no, you’re not kissing your way out of this one! You told me you’d tell me when the roses changed for you if I told you when it changed for me.”

Sylvain is still staring at her and he relishes the way her face morphs into a pout. “Sylvain—”

“It's always been the same for me too. Since the first time you ever gave me roses.”

She blinks at him, blush returning to her cheeks, and he smiles at her, laying his very soul out to her.

“I’ve loved you since the very first time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my take on a halcyon days timeline: where there's no tragedy of Duscur, there's no war, Galatea is not impoverished (no engagements from birth necessary!!), there's no TWSITD... (and at the risk of sounding like Sylvain: maybe there are no crests either!!!)  
> AKA the blue lions kids don't need ANY sort of therapy WHATSOEVER bc there's no TRAUMA
> 
> but there IS sylvain and ingrid growing up together, getting the childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood they deserve. (and their love, of course, bc who am I???)
> 
> (also am I double posting because I feel guilty for the last chapter?  
> ...possibly)
> 
> Additionally, I'm double posting because I need to tap out for an undetermined amount of time as I go back to school and apply for my future
> 
> exciting but scary!!
> 
> thank you to all the friends i've made along the way (s/o to the sylvgrid discord y'all amazing)! I truly value all the support and fun times we've been through in this last month alone... I might not be actively writing for the time being, but I WILL still leave junk in your inboxes <3.


	6. a secret to share, a sorrow to hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when you share your secrets and sorrows and hiding places with me.

Sylvain wakes up to soft sheets and the gentle bustle of the Fraldarius estate in the early mornings. He always loved visiting Felix, not just because visits to his best friend meant lazy mornings and lively breakfasts… it also meant he got to leave Gautier and escape the frigidity of his brother’s glare over the dining table.

And while he tends to wake up far more peacefully in his usual guest room, he can’t help but feel… a little _off._ Even as he blearily pulls on his pants and trudges over to Felix’s room to find it unsurprisingly empty, something has shifted in Fraldarius and he can’t quite put his finger on it.

Well, besides the obvious announcement of Ingrid’s betrothal to Glenn just yesterday.

It wasn’t… _surprising_ … If anything, he probably saw it coming.

It just ached in a way he wasn’t expecting.

He was sitting across from Ingrid, in between Felix and Dimitri, as he watched Glenn clasp her hand and utter the words that sent his head spinning. “We’re getting married. Father informed us this morning.”

Glenn was never one to mince his words.

Although his hearing was muffled by the buzzing in his ears, drowning out any congratulations from Dimitri or disgruntled huffing from Felix, Sylvain is acutely focused on the line of Ingrid’s shoulders.

And how her politely blank smile did absolutely _nothing_ to hide the tension laced into her ramrod straight back.

_Takes one to know one._

Once the standard exchange of pleasantries was over, Ingrid airily excused herself and drifted away in a manner Sylvain knew her capable of, but never thought he would witness.

Ingrid… doesn’t _drift._ She strides, she marches, she _leads_ … Especially with the way she orders them around whenever they spar. But it wasn’t even until she turned the corner out of sight did he notice the swish of her skirts, and that he realized she wore a dress instead of her usual breeches.

A part of him itched to go after her, because if anyone knew _anything_ about empty smiles, _he_ would be the one to get the bottom of it.

The other part of him helpfully reminded him that Ingrid could very well throw him across a room without breaking a sweat if she wasn’t in the mood to talk.

So, he watched her go, and watched Glenn roll his neck before heading out to the training grounds with Felix and Dimitri hot on his heels, like he’d said nothing of consequence.

With that in mind, he glosses past Dimitri’s similarly empty room and stops short of Ingrid’s open door. His heart eases momentarily. It’s not the first time the three of them got up early without him, to train with Glenn, who was well on his way to becoming the youngest knight in Fódlan, but something _still_ didn’t sit right with him.

Sylvain hastily returns to his room to change out of his sleeping shirt to be presentable for breakfast, if the brightness of the sun warming the hallways was any indication of how much later he slept in compared to his friends. He skips a few steps down the stairs and skids into the kitchen, heart beating strangely in his chest.

Dimitri, Felix, and Glenn are chatting idly over breakfast, their hair damp from their early morning training session, but Ingrid is nowhere to be found.

He swallows the lump in his throat and returns the courteous nods his friends give him and sits as casually as possible as a plate of food is placed in front of him. He forks a piece of fruit into his mouth and measures his words carefully. “Did Ingrid eat already? She’s the last person I’d expect to miss out on a meal.”

Three pairs of eyes turn on him and Sylvain actively reminds himself that it does _not_ automatically mean he’s getting six new bruises on his body. It takes everything in him to not fidget under their gazes, and he _just_ suppresses his flinch when Glenn’s voice cuts through the air. “I haven’t seen her since yesterday, said she wasn’t feeling well and was going to skip training this morning.”

Sylvain’s face twists into a frown. _Definitely not like her._ Still feeling Glenn’s stare, he looks up. His raised eyebrow and hard eyes burn into him. “You know something about that?”

His heart twinges once and he goes for forced neutrality. “Your guess is as good as mine. Felix? Dimitri? Any guesses?”

Felix, like he expects, shrugs. Dimitri, also like he expects, creases his brow and offers, “perhaps the stables? She always did enjoy grooming her horse whenever she needed to think.”

He finds himself nodding, because it makes _sense_ , but that same feeling he had this morning resurfaces and he wonders if Ingrid isn’t being herself… where _else_ would she go?

* * *

Turns out, Ingrid is _not_ in the stables, but her horse is. In fact, her horse looks rather pleased with himself as he noses the sugar cubes out of his jacket as Sylvain unsuccessfully tries to coax answers from him. “C’mon bud, you’re going to eat all these treats and give me nothing in return? Not going to tell me where your rider is? Not even a hint?”

With a huff of hot horse breath in his face and the crunch of the final sugar cube, Sylvain sighs heavily and pats Ingrid’s horse on the head, exiting the stall in defeat. Ingrid’s grooming kit was left untouched from when she unpacked it when they arrived earlier in the week, and considering the jitteriness of her horse, it didn’t seem like she’d taken him out for a ride recently either.

When Ingrid’s horse snorts in his face one last time as he turns to leave, he mentally apologizes to the stable hand for any future grievances caused by the sugar cubes nabbed straight from his pockets.

* * *

Sylvain stumbles into the library and sneezes from the dust floating in the air. A quick scan of the room tells him that she’s not there. Judging by the amount of dust dancing in the sunbeams from the window, _no one’s_ been in the library for some time.

Not surprising, considering how _physically_ oriented Glenn and Felix are. Lord Rodrigue probably had all the books he needed in his own study.

Sighing, he trudges over to the floor length window to look over the estate, in a last ditch effort to see if he can spot a familiar head of blonde hair.

His prayers are answered when he sees that very hair bob along the garden hedges and disappear amongst the rose bushes.

He doesn’t wait any longer to double check it’s her.

The tugging of his heart tells him enough.

* * *

He skids to a stop in another dead-end in the Fraldarius gardens and groans. There was probably a quicker way to the rose bushes than through the hedge maze, but it was the last place he saw Ingrid weaving through, and he really didn’t think much beyond that. Now that he’s stuck, Sylvain _really_ wishes he took just the extra bit of time to study the pattern when he still had an elevated view. Sighing, he kicks a stray pebble on the ground and tries again.

And again.

And _again._

Three more wrong turns later, he huffs loudly and throws caution to the wind. “Ingrid? I know you’re by the rose bushes. Help a guy out?”

No voice responds to him, but he listens a little more carefully. The rustling he initially attributed to the leaves in the wind stopped, but the breeze against his face didn’t _._ He walks to the last two paths he hasn’t tried yet and he calls out again, “Ingrid?”

“Go away, Sylvain.” _To his left_.

He takes the left path and keeps his footsteps light, stopping at another forked road. “I didn’t see you at breakfast.”

“I want to be left alone.” _To the right._

“I saw that look on your face yesterday, Ingrid.”

“It’s my face. What about it?” _Right._

He sighs, thankful he isn’t out of the hedges yet to experience whatever annoyed expression she’s probably making at him, but he also _knows_ that empty smile.

Owns it. Uses it often.

And the _last_ thing he wanted whenever he flashed that smile was to be alone.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

He’s close enough now to hear her long-suffering sigh. “Then, what did you mean?” _Left._

Sylvain’s pretty sure he turned the last corner he needed because he can see white roses peaking out on the right path. Exhaling in relief, he jogs out of the maze and into the summer sun, Ingrid’s blonde hair shining brightly next to a growing pile of flowers. She’s wearing another dress today and his throat tightens. “I _meant_ I thought you’d like some company.”

She doesn’t even bother to look at him as he approaches, eyes pointedly trained on the roses before her. It’s not until he’s sitting by her side that he notices the pink smudges on the white petals and the still bleeding cuts on her fingers. He snatches her hands away from the thorny stems. “You’re bleeding! What are you doing?”

Ingrid shakes off his grip easily and scowls, spitting out, “learning how to be a _proper_ wife with flowers and dresses, but it’s really none of your business anyway, is it?”

He intercepts her hand as she angrily reaches for another rose. He pushes the pile aside and purposely places himself in her field of vision. So she _has_ to look at him. “You’re one of my best friends, and you’re upset.”

She scoffs and looks away from him, arms crossing, fingers bleeding into the white cotton of her dress. He shifts again. “I’m serious, Ingrid. You’re upset in a way that I only ever see in myself. You know just as well as I do that it’s not _healthy_ and that it’s not like _you_. What’s going on?”

Ingrid’s eyes are still focused on a spot just over his shoulder, but her fingers grip her arms tighter and her shoulders tense like they did yesterday. “You were there.”

Sylvain’s heart constricts in his chest, an unnamable feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach hearing her strained, measured voice. He gulps. “I was.” _She’s still not looking at him._ “And I’m here now.”

Ingrid’s posture stiffens further, but she stays resolutely silent.

He doesn’t blame her. He goes silent too, whenever _he_ gets like this.

Instead, he shifts back to her side and leans his weight on his hands, head tipping toward the open sky. “You all know I don’t like going home, but I never told you why.”

“It’s Miklan, isn’t it?”

He snorts. “Of _course_ you’ve figured it out. You’re all too smart for your own good.”

“It’s not like you were very good at hiding it. You’re more obvious than you think.”

Sylvain rolls his head to look at her. Her posture hasn’t loosened any, but she is meeting his gaze now. Her green eyes stare steadily into his and the burning in his stomach calms. He smiles weakly. “Maybe you just get me.”

She scoffs again, but voice lighter than before. “ _Maybe_ I’ve just cleaned up after you enough times to recognize a pattern.”

He smiles again. “ _See_? You _do_ get me.”

That gets a small laugh out of her and he feels like maybe he’s done something right for once.

Then, he remembers why he started this conversation in the first place, and a chill settles over him despite the warmth of the sun. “Joking aside, I don’t tell you guys everything. Even when I should.”

Ingrid falls silent again, but this time, waiting for him. He inhales unevenly. “You’re right, I don’t like going home because of Miklan. I just… I never told you how bad it gets.”

He stares hard at the discarded rose pile, stares hard at the pink smudges left behind by Ingrid’s bleeding fingers, and he takes another breath. “He tried killing me a few years ago. Pushed me down a well. Broke a few bones, cracked a rib on the way down, gulped some of the nasty well water that turned into pneumonia.”

“Sylvain—”

Her voice almost gives him pause, but now that he’s started, he can’t stop. “And the worst part is, I think I’ve forgiven him for it. For trying to kill me. Because the continent and the crest system is fucked up, my family is twisted as shit, and _I’m_ willing to let an attempt on my life slide because deep down somewhere, I think I deserve it—”

“ _Sylvain._ ”

He didn’t even notice clenching his fists, didn’t notice Ingrid’s nails digging into his skin trying to get him to loosen them. He got so wrapped up in his own head, so stuck in his own thoughts, that his attempt to help Ingrid still ended with her, caring for him. _He really is the worst._

She finally pries open his fingers and slips her hand into his, squeezing tightly. “You don’t deserve that, Sylvain. Never. You deserve better. _Always_.”

He squeezes back. “You deserve better too.”

And that’s the final crack in Ingrid’s armor, as she clutches his hand like a lifeline, biting her lip as she falls silent again. He counts Ingrid’s steady heartbeats as it pulses against her skin into his.

  
She takes a shuddering breath. “I don’t want to marry Glenn, Sylvain. I don’t want to get married at all.”

His breath catches in his chest and all he can do is keep her hand in his, anchoring them down in the life that neither of them want. His heart stutters in time with the waver in her voice as she whispers, “What are we supposed to do?”

His heart aches again, old and deep, but he finds the words to say, with Ingrid’s bloodied fingers intertwined with his.

“Get through it. Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE NO MORE EXAMS FOR THE NEXT YEAR AND MY WRITING BRAIN IS _BACK_
> 
> I do have other essays to write, but whenever I need a break....
> 
> (sylvgrid content is waiting in the wings)


	7. play along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love how you play along with my bad ideas

Sylvain wasn’t sure he would get this far, but now that they’re standing in the hair dye aisle in the grocery store, he’s going _all_ in. It’s summertime and they were bored sitting at home, and after watching one too many hair coloring videos, Sylvain was just _itching_ to try something.

And what better person to try it on than his girlfriend who already has blonde hair?

He snatches one of the boxed dyes off the shelf and shoves it in Ingrid’s hands. “This one.”

Ingrid, already skeptical of this entire endeavor and not entirely sure how Sylvain hoodwinked her into this one, raises an eyebrow. “’ _Smokey Pink’_? Really?”

“Aw, c’mon Ingrid. Pink hair would be a _great_ look on you.”

She sighs. He’s giving her that puppy-eyed look and she can already feel her resolve weakening, but she’s _not_ going down without a fight. “And just _how_ would you know that?”

Sylvain blinks, unbidden memories of coffee beans and chamomile tea float to the forefront of his mind, and then they’re gone. _Huh._ They hadn’t been to a coffeeshop in a while, maybe it was time to make a trip. He shakes his head twice, as if it would clear his thoughts. “I don’t know, happened in a dream once?”

He expected a shove, maybe even a slap on his arm, but instead he sees Ingrid mull it over, chewing on her lip before sighing. “…Fine. If _I_ have to go pink, I’m picking this one for you.”

She plucks another box off the shelf and tosses it to him. He balks at the name. “’ _Mint Shake’_? Are you trying to turn my hair into the color of vomit?”

“If I’m about to look ridiculous with pink hair, it’s only fair you have something just as bad.”

Sylvain flips the box over, scanning over the before-and-after pictures like it would change his gut instinct that _this is a bad idea._ “ _Ingrid_ , pink isn’t that bad! Look at Hilda!”

“…Sylvain, what part of me says, ‘ _pink’_ to you?”

Despite her outward annoyance, Ingrid is still holding onto the box he picked out for her, even with her arms crossed. _He loves it when she indulges him._ As much as he wants to put the green box dye back on the shelf, he’ll do it if it means pink-haired Ingrid. He smiles. “Oh, you know… just the pink in your cheeks whenever I kiss you—”

She blushes prettily and he smiles even wider as she elbows him in the ribs. “ _Don’t_ make me hurt you in public.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and steers them toward checkout, pink and green box dyes in hand. “I’m just _saying_ , I think it’ll be cute.”

* * *

It is _not_ cute.

Ingrid stares at the patchy color job in the mirror as she sips at her water. Chunks of her hair are over-saturated with a dusty pink while other sections are her _completely_ untouched natural blonde. Sylvain is still washing out his hair in the shower, so she can’t even turn her full wrath on him. She sighs deeply, fingers picking up one of the strands that ended up with the right amount of color.

And while she has that special headache that only Sylvain can induce…

…the pink _is_ kind of cute. _If_ it were spread properly.

The bathroom door swings wide open and slams against the wall. “Ingrid… Are you still in touch with Dorothea?”

She whips her head around and is struck by the image of her shirtless boyfriend with matted wet hair and a towel around his neck, water still rolling down his abdomen to his black shorts. Even though she’s seen him like this a _million_ times before, she can still feel a familiar flush rise high onto her face.

Similarly, that _insufferable_ smirk rises on _his_ face when he notices her pink cheeks and she feels the sudden urge to dump her entire cup of water onto his head—

Ingrid’s eyes flash back up to his hair and she chokes on the laughter rising in her throat. “Your _hair—”_

“Is the worst shade of brown you can find, yes, _thank you_. Can you call her?”

Still wheezing, she takes another look at him and _delights_ in the fact that Sylvain wasn’t immune to patchiness either with streaks of bright green contrasting against the off-brown color his hair took on. She wipes a few tears away from her eyes as he gives her a look caught between affection and desperation. “What do you need from Thea?”

His look turns incredulous. “To ask if she does walk-ins!”

A few more snickers escape her and she raises her eyebrows at him. “Why don’t _you_ call Hilda? They work in the same hair salon.”

“Are you kidding me? She’d _kill_ me for what we’ve done to our hair.”

She shakes her head and walks over to him, lifting one hand to run it through his wet hair. “So, you admit this was a bad idea?”

Sylvain catches her hand and draws her closer, smiling lazily. “Well, _you_ agreed to it, didn’t you?”

Ingrid hums and pulls him down by the towel around his neck. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”

* * *

Dorothea takes one look at them when they walk in and proceeds to shoot him the _dirtiest_ look she can muster as she whisks Ingrid off to the closest styling chair. He _also_ doesn’t miss the glint in her eyes as she reaches for her book of color samples to plop in his girlfriend’s lap.

Meanwhile, Sylvain feels the hair on the back of his neck rise.

A sickly sweet voice sounds off behind him, “Sylvain? I thought I told you to never, _ever_ , disrespect me.”

He turns quickly on his heel and throws on the most convincing smile he can. “Hilds, when did I _ever_ do that?”

It doesn’t work.

He’s shoved into the nearest chair and Hilda grabs a fistful of his hair, glaring at him in the mirror. “ _Box. Dye?_ You piece of—”

“ _Ow,_ ow! Okay! I’m sorry!”

Her grip tightens momentarily, and he winces as his roots pull against his scalp. _He would_ never _get used to how strong Hilda is._

He breathes a sigh of relief when she lets go. Instead of handing him a color book like Dorothea, Hilda hums long and low, lilting higher at the very end. Sylvain sneaks a glance at her and catches her eying Ingrid. Just as he turns his head to look, Hilda’s hands shoot out and force him forward, locking him with a gaze he has only ever seen on Claude or Dorothea.

He gulps as she smiles at him in the mirror. “How would you like to go blond, Sylvain?”

The look in her eyes hasn’t changed and he hesitates. “…Will that get rid of the green?”

Hilda pinches a few strands of hair between her fingers and shrugs. “It might, or it might get rid of all your hair—”

“Wait, hold on—”

She claps both her hands on his shoulders and he grunts under the sudden weight. “But just _imagine_ for a second, Sylvain. Being blond.”

He grimaces. “Don’t think I can, Hilds. It’s definitely not my color—”

“Not even if it’s your future blond babies with Ingrid?”

* * *

Ingrid jerks in her chair when she hears a loud choking from Sylvain’s general vicinity and is just about to whip her head around when Dorothea’s hands tighten in her hair. “Careful, Ingie! I’m still trying to even out this color job.”

She mumbles out a soft apology, but a part of her still itches to check on him. She feels a light tug on her hair and hears Dorothea snort. “He’s fine. Hilda’s just bullying him, like usual.”

Relaxing back into the chair, she tries to glance at him, but the seat Hilda shoved him into is _just_ out of her peripheral. She sighs and Dorothea joins her. “Speaking of bullying, how’d he talk you into this one? You didn’t lose a bet with him, did you?”

An odd warmth flutters in her chest when she hears Hilda laugh over Sylvain’s defeated groan and then it passes. _Huh._ “No… I don’t think so?”

Dorothea’s hands pause and her friend’s face appears before her, eyebrow raised. “You mean you don’t remember?”

Ingrid shrugs. “Sylvain talks me into a lot of things I probably shouldn’t do.”

Dorothea clicks her tongue and begins working on the last layers of her hair. “Has he talked you into marrying him yet?”

Now, it’s Ingrid’s turn to choke. “ _Dorothea!_ ”

“Relax! I’m kidding!” Her friend’s smile widens at her flaming cheeks. “…Unless you don’t want me to be kidding?”

“I… we’ve… talked about it.”

Dorothea’s tools clatter onto her cart and her friend’s wide green eyes are back in her face. “ _Really_? You have? He finally did it?”

Ingrid’s eyes dart over to Sylvain, who’s still fending off Hilda’s needling about his poor life choices and how he has to suffer the consequences. She smiles. _No wonder he didn’t want to call in._ “Not yet. But we’ve talked about it.”

Dorothea smiles with her. “I’m happy for you, Ingrid. You two have been together forever.”

Sylvain catches her eye and throws her a wink before Hilda wrenches his head back to the mirror and she laughs. “Yeah, we have, haven’t we?”

Dorothea hums lightly and finishes brushing on the last bit of color. “Now I’m even _happier_ with the color I chose for you.”

Ingrid freezes. She’s heard that tone of voice before. “Thea—”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“About as far as I can throw you.”

“So, _very far_. Just what I like to hear _._ Now, let’s go wash out your hair.”

* * *

Sylvain lost track of how much time Hilda spent berating him for box dye and half-heartedly trying to convince him to go blond, but she was finally applying a dark brown to his hair to cover up the green. He watched Dorothea usher Ingrid into the back, but that wink…

_She’s up to something._

Hilda taps the top of his head twice and jerks her head over to the back as well. He tries peeking at Ingrid’s hair color because he heard Ingrid hand over the reins to Dorothea… but Dorothea tosses a towel at his face on his way in and Hilda has his head in the sink before he can catch a glimpse.

He hears her shuffle out of the room and feels a tap on his shoe. Dorothea’s voice is coy and his heart rate spikes. “You’ll see her soon, loverboy. You trust me, don’t you?”

“About as far as I can throw you.”

Dorothea laughs once and then she’s gone.

Sylvain sighs heavily as Hilda rinses out his hair. “Hilds, on a scale of 1 to fuck me, how am I going to react to Dorothea’s work?”

Hilda slaps a wet hand to his face in consolation. “I think you know the answer to that.”

* * *

Sylvain walks out of the backroom, towel wrapped around his head, when he spots Dorothea blowing out long ginger hair and his heart stops in his chest. Hilda nudges him in the back. “What about some cute little ginger babies? Can you see it now?”

Dorothea spins Ingrid around in the chair and she blinks at him slowly, before breaking out in a smile that steals his breath away.

“Fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: how do i end this  
> [paperpenpal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperpenpal): fuck  
> me: ok
> 
> THANK YOU SYLVGRID DISCORD  
> FOR YELLING AT ME TO SLEEP  
> AND FOR DARING ME TO DO HAIR SALON AU  
> HERE IT IS


	8. realize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> before you grow up and realize they are bad ideas.

It starts off with a stupid bet at the harvest festival, the year before they start at the academy.

There’s a special deal on skewered chicken, a reduced price for anyone who can finish an entire row of skewers in under eight minutes. Sylvain pulls Ingrid to a stop and nudges her with his elbow. “Bet you won’t finish that entire row of skewers.”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow at him and calmly rolls up her sleeves. “Watch me.”

Sylvain ends up preemptively paying for the chicken, his eyes glued to Ingrid as she adds another polished skewer to the rapidly growing pile next to her.

Her cheeks are stuffed and there’s just a tiny bit of grease at the corner of her mouth and Sylvain feels something stir in him. Something burning in the middle of chest.

Maybe he’s getting reflux for her.

She drops the last clean skewer onto her pile and smiles at him triumphantly. _Six minutes_.

His heart twinges, but he smiles back.

_Definitely indigestion._

* * *

It’s summertime and Ingrid bristles as she spots a certain head of purple hair come her way. She’s been raised to be polite, and she _is_ (generally)… but there’s something about the angle of his hair and that _ever_ present red rose on his left torso that drains the rest of her energy.

Even more than Sylvain.

And she had the misfortune of _witnessing_ their rather unfortunate flirting competition from afar.

Her eyes quickly scan the beach for Sylvain and that stupid towel he draped around his neck. He’d run off to swim with Dorothea to escape her scolding earlier about using Felix’s nickname for Dimitri, but the heat of the sun eventually got the better of him and he dragged himself out of the water back to her with a sheepish smile on his face. “Melon float to please the lady?” She raised an eyebrow at him and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll buy two?”

Ingrid sighed and waved him off. “Make it three and I won’t dump one on your head.”

Sylvain frowned for a split second before it goes back to his usual whining. “Aw, c’mon Ingrid. I only have two hands!”

“You’ll find a way.”

He sighed heavily and shook his head. “I’ll find a way.” Then he throws her a wink. “Only for you, Ing.”

She rolled her eyes at his retreating back and tried to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks. But that was half an hour ago and Sylvain is still nowhere in sight. Turning toward the ocean breeze instead, she fans at her face, _praying_ that maybe Lorenz had his sights set on someone else—

“Hello, Ingrid. Something troubling you? You are welcome to talk to me if you so desire.”

 _Of course not._ Ingrid turns around and a small parchment wrapped bouquet of hibiscus and plumerias is all but shoved in her hands. She blinks twice and her eyes are drawn back to that _damned rose—_

“Perhaps we could… share a drink on the beach…”

Sighing, she closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Keep it moving, Lorenz. I have enough headaches as it is."

Even with her eyes shut, Ingrid can feel Lorenz move into her space, his cologne surrounding her. She just barely suppresses the urge to wrinkle her nose when he speaks again, “I could assist with that! We share many of the same qualities and hobbies, as nobles should, perhaps we could talk about it over dinner. How would that sound, Ingrid—Where’d she go?”

Ingrid couldn’t tell when she bolted from that conversation, either from the moment he started speaking about nobility, or maybe even earlier when he crowded her space. Whenever it was, she’s currently crouched low behind one of the beach shacks, breathing in the sea air when a different, a _familiar_ smell reaches her.

“What are you doing crouched down like that, Ingrid?”

Sylvain stands before her, somehow with three drinks balanced in his hands, shades low on his nose. Her eyes wander down his torso, to the sweat lining his abdomen—

Her eyes snap to the sand and she stutters, “seashells! I’m gathering seashells.”

He doesn’t respond and she looks back at him, only to find his eyes darting back to her face, a strange pink spreading across his nose. “Seashells?”

She nods almost too vigorously, to hide the pink rising in her own cheeks. “Since not all of our classmates are here, I wanted to bring them souvenirs.” Her gaze travels to the unfortunate bouquet in her hands. “And these flowers… maybe I can press them between the pages of a book?”

Sylvain falls silent again, his eyes locked onto the flowers in her hands. “Hmm… souvenirs, eh?”

“Yeah, a reminder. A reminder that there’s still nice places like this out in the world…”

Ingrid quiets and traces the ridges of the seashell she hastily snatched up, her skin heating with Sylvain’s eyes still on her. “Even if it’s not for years to come, I hope we can visit this place again together someday.”

“Oh, there you two are!”

Their heads spin to find Dorothea swaying toward them, a twinkle in her eye. “The professor has some iced treats for us—”

Ingrid shoots up from her spot on the ground. “I’m on my way!”

Before darting off, she plucks two of the drinks from Sylvain’s hands and freezes momentarily when she spots something over his shoulder. She leans in close and he feels his ears burn. “Bet you won’t knock that _stupid_ rose off Lorenz’ shirt.”

Then, she links her arms with Dorothea and skips off to her next promise of food. With only one half-melting drink in his hand, Sylvain blinks at her retreating back and tries not to focus too hard on how the curve of her spine disappears under her mint green shorts—

He hears Lorenz huff next to him. “Oh, Lorenz, what happened with that girl you were talking to, by the way?”

Lorenz stiffens next to him and he raises an eyebrow. “Oh, that…”

The usually verbose noble stays silent and Sylvain stares at him harder. Then— _the flowers—“_ You tried hitting on _Ingrid?!_ ”

Lorenz flushes unceremoniously and Ingrid’s bet rings in his ears. _Bet you won’t knock that_ stupid _rose off—_

Sylvain’s hand flies out and sends the damn thing sailing. Lorenz has the audacity to gasp. “Are you out of your mind?! _Ingrid?_ ”

To his credit, Lorenz does _not_ go after his rose, but he does huff again as he crosses his arms and turns his nose up at him. “Are you out of _yours_? Ingrid is rather beautiful if you haven’t noticed, you’d be a fool not to—have you _not noticed?”_

Sylvain almost wishes there was another rose on Lorenz for him to slap off. “Of _course_ I’ve noticed, I—”

He could’ve sworn he sees Dorothea’s head whip back toward them with Ingrid’s questioning gaze following soon after. As if the sun weren’t enough, another wave of heat washes over him and he marches away from Lorenz. “I am _not_ talking about this. And I’m _definitely_ not talking about this with _you_.”

* * *

Ingrid might be seething, _just a little_. Because Sylvain’s bet runs through her mind, and of course she ends up taking on his challenge the _one_ day everyone needs her to perform physically taxing tasks.

_Bet you won’t wear this dress for an entire day._

She doesn’t even know where he conjured this dress up from ( _Dorothea, most likely, if her suggestive eyebrow wagging over breakfast was anything to go by_ ), but he shoved it into her hands as soon as he successfully goaded her into it and sauntered off.

Now she’s stuck, in this floaty, gauzy, white sundress that swishes about her knees. She’d be angrier with Sylvain if _she_ hadn’t willingly agreed to it, because as much as she hates to admit it… it’s a cute dress.

And it’s wonderful for the hot weather.

But it is _not_ wonderful for the gardening in the greenhouse the professor assigned her to. She’s just about to start clipping the rose bushes when she hears an ungraceful yelp and the slam of the greenhouse door. Whipping her head around, she spots Sylvain frozen by the entrance with wide eyes, and maybe the telltale swing of Dorothea’s hair beyond the warped glass.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Here to join me or here to stare?”

He stays put by the door for a few more moments until his legs finally bring him closer, remaining silent as he sits next to her. Turning her attention back to the roses, she raises her shears to begin clipping when she feels a sharp sting across her knuckles.

She instinctively draws her hand back and hisses, “ _ow_.” A small trickle of blood oozes from a thin scratch across the top of her fingers and Ingrid glares at the bush. Then, at Sylvain, as if the dress had something to do with it.

Instead of reacting with his usual defensiveness, he quietly takes her hand in his, thumb running over her skin, eyes faraway. Before she can question him about it, he raises it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to her knuckles, and suddenly Ingrid’s lost in the gold that stares back at her.

Her fingers twitch in his grasp and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “All better?”

She whips her hand out of his, blush heating her cheeks. “No thanks to you.”

He leans back on his hands and laughs. “You wound me, Ing. I’ve been practicing my faith magic! I definitely stopped that bleeding.”

She rolls her eyes at him while he picks up her discarded shears to start clipping. After a sizeable amount of shrubbery and flowers lay at their feet, a shroud of _something_ falls over them and Ingrid absently picks up a white rose to tuck it behind his ear, as if she’s done it all her life.

She bites her lip at the flutter in her chest as he blinks slowly at her. Her breathing hitches and her eyes drop to the column of his throat as he swallows thickly.

Her gaze snaps back up to his and she smiles. “Bet you won’t keep your shirt properly buttoned for an entire day.”

That _something_ lifts and Sylvain matches her smile. “You’re on.”

Sylvain walks into class the next day with his buttons fully done and uniform collar fastened to the very top, white rose still in his hair. He’s pulling at his neck every two seconds, fiddling with his cuffs every three, but his eyes dart over to hers and he winks.

_Only for you._

* * *

Graduation is approaching fast and Dorothea has somehow gotten a hold of alcohol, courtesy of Claude. At some point during the night, she and Sylvain teetered back to the greenhouse in front of the rose bushes and Ingrid is feeling more than a little lightheaded as she leans heavily against Sylvain’s warmth, the smell of cinnamon and leather letting her sink deeper into his side. She hears him chuckle and his shoulders shift slightly, and suddenly her cheek is pressed against his neck and Ingrid finds she doesn’t care at all. “Doin’ all right there?”

She hums lightly and nuzzles closer.

Their bets had dwindled off after Sylvain dared her to slap Dimitri’s ass during training and she dared him to stick gum in Felix’s hair during his certification exam. Those stunts earned them two months of stable duty, no exchanges, no excuses.

They stopped taking bets, but that _something_ … The something that happened right here, in the greenhouse, started happening more often. Her gaze lingers after Sylvain. The ghost of his lips on her knuckles. The white rose she tucked behind his ear. The pink in his cheeks underneath the summer sun.

The faraway look he gets in his eyes when he stares into hers.

His breath brushes over her ear and her spine tingles. “Bet for old time’s sake?”

Ingrid draws back from him and tilts her head. Sylvain’s cheeks are flushed and he’s got this boyish smile on his face that makes her heartache, no matter how many times he flashes it at her. She chances a glance into his eyes and that _look_ is there again.

The one that sends electricity across her skin. The one that makes her feel older than they are.

He leans in closer and that smile of his smaller, gold eyes shining. “Bet you won’t kiss me.”

Without another thought, Ingrid’s hands cup his face and she revels in the way his skin heats further at her touch. She smiles at his sharp inhale and whispers, “I wouldn’t take that bet.”

Her thumbs brush across the tops of his cheeks and she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. She pulls back before he can turn his head to catch her lips fully. She laughs lightly at the pout on his face and rests her forehead against his. “Bet you won’t fall in love with me.”

Sylvain’s eyes bore into hers and she can feel her heart beat in time with his.

“I wouldn’t take that bet if my life depended on it.”

It sounds like a promise. It _feels_ like a promise.

With the way his fingers lace with hers, she realizes...

Maybe they’ve made this promise before.

And Ingrid’s never been more grateful for Sylvain’s promises when he seals his lips to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fire emblem heroes gifted us with summer sylvgrid and i just _had_ to
> 
> stealth edits to come because i have been awake for far too long
> 
> s/o to the sylvgrid discord for giving me bad ideas (bets) to write about because.... with friends like sylvain, there are _so_ many bad (read: great) ideas.


	9. stuck with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (And in our times together I have many bad ideas.)

Sylvain is immensely grateful that neither of them are scared of heights, because with the way Ingrid’s glaring at him right now, the impending lecture he’s going to get would’ve doubled in time and sent him running for the hills. He’s halfway decided to risk the broken leg from jumping out of the tree anyway when Ingrid shifts on the branch next to him and her eyes go wide for a fraction of a second. He watches in rising panic as her leg slips off and her body veers sideways off balance.

His arm shoots out to crush her to his chest while the other is wrapped tightly around the tree trunk. His heart is hammering in his ears while Ingrid’s arms are in a deadlock around his neck. 

They sit there on the branch, Sylvain’s arm tense around trunk, the other still securing Ingrid to him as their breathing evens out. He gulps when she draws back, eyes still wide. “Sylvain—”

His heart hasn’t calmed _at all_ when he feels her breath on his face. He smiles weakly. “I know you hate being stuck in this tree, but better stuck with me than stuck with a broken leg, wouldn’t you say?”

Ingrid rolls her eyes and tightens her hold around his neck.

He chokes.

_He probably deserved that._

* * *

They’ve just moved into this new apartment for not even a week and Ingrid is wholly unsurprised when the elevator light flickers once and shuts off completely, the mechanical hum slowing to a stop.

She doesn’t sigh, she doesn’t even huff. She just calmly looks over to Sylvain, where he stands with a beet red face, twiddling his thumbs. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he shrinks even further under her gaze.

He starts bumbling without further prompting, “yes, I know you’ve told me not to jump in elevators hundreds of times, Ing. But I didn’t think it would _work_ this time!”

Ingrid continues to stare at him, and he runs a quick hand through his hair. “I’m _sorry_.”

She still doesn’t grace him with a response, and he slumps against the cool metal. “Okay, okay. We’re not using the elevator to go up one floor anymore.”

Silence.

“We’re not using the elevator to go up two floors?”

The air in the elevator grows heavier. “We’re not using the elevator… ever?”

“I’m glad you see it my way.”

“Ing!”

* * *

Sylvain is napping on the stiff airport seating while Ingrid paces in front of him, eyes darting out to the whipping winds outside. She curses under her breath. Faerghus winters were never kind, but _this_ snowstorm wasn’t supposed to roll in until later this evening.

She looks back at her best friend’s sleeping face and sighs, idly jealous of his ability to sleep in any place or position, no matter how uncomfortable. She plops back down on the seat next to his head and stares wearily at the announcement board a few feet away.

_Delayed._

Her head drops onto Sylvain’s shoulder and it jostles him awake. “Hm? Ingrid? Any updates?”

Feeling the exhaustion seep into her bones, she groans, “what do _you_ think, Sylvain? We’re on standby for a last minute redeye and there’s a _blizzard_ raging out there.”

Ingrid’s eyes slide shut and she feels Sylvain crane his neck toward the window. “Hm. Fancy that.”

She snorts. “That all you have to say? This was _your_ idea.”

Sylvain’s head rests on top of hers and he slings an arm around her shoulder. “Well, better stuck inside this airport than out there, huh?”

She tries shrugging his arm off, but it stays soundly put. She sighs again. “Yes, but I’m _also_ stuck inside with you.”

His weight leaves her and Ingrid lifts her head to find his warm eyes staring teasingly into hers, small smile on his lips. It sends a pang through her heart. “Aw, Ing. It’s not so bad being stuck with me, is it? You wouldn’t have stuck around for so long otherwise.”

She doesn’t even bother with a response. She drops her head back onto his shoulder and closes her eyes.

Ingrid smiles to herself when she feels Sylvain’s head nestle back on top of hers, his arm settling around her again while he stifles a yawn.

_No. It’s not so bad at all._

* * *

Ingrid giggles as Sylvain noisily shushes her, his face betraying his own amusement as he leans over her shoulder to press his ear against the closet door. He can hear a few footsteps of several officers and maybe the low rumble of Felix’s father, but nothing coming in their direction.

He looks back at Ingrid. His cheeks are red and so are hers, but the _mental_ image of Rodrigue being called on Dimitri’s house party sets them off in hysterics again.

Laughter keeps escaping her, despite her best attempts to keep it at day. It’s _infectious_ , because Sylvain can’t stop snickering either, so he covers her mouth with his hand while he raises a finger to his lips. “ _Shh_ , Ingrid! We’re gonna get caught!”

Her shoulders continue to shake and there are tears lining the corners of her eyes, her voice muffled behind his hand. “I’m _trying._ ”

An involuntary shiver shoots down his spine with the way her lips brush against his palm. Suddenly, he doesn’t quite feel like laughing anymore.

He towers over her as he’s got her cornered against the closet door, both of their weights keeping it shut in case someone tried to open it. It seemed like a good idea at the time, grabbing her hand and scrambling to the farthest hiding spot when the police sirens first went off.

But _now_ …

Ingrid’s eyes peer into his and Sylvain feels like he’s been suspended in time.

His throat tightens and his mouth dries. There’s a buzzing in his ears and his limbs are tingling. The only thing he sees is the green of her eyes and he can’t shake the heaviness that settles over his skin. He knows he’s staring, but his heart keeps skipping as she holds his gaze and doesn’t break away.

Her own hands move, one of them catching the hand covering her mouth, the other tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Her fingers lightly trail along his jaw, her eyes still fixed on his, and Sylvain _burns_ with the way she looks at him.

Looks at him like she’s waiting for something he’s supposed to do. Waiting for something that he should’ve already done.

Her hand cups his face, thumb brushing his cheek and he _swears_ he feels the soft press of her lips against his—

He blinks. Ingrid hasn’t moved in inch, but her eyes drop from his eyes to his mouth and his breath hitches.

The doorknob rattles by Ingrid’s hip and a weight pushes against the door. “Sylvain? Ingrid? Are you two stuck in there?”

They startle apart, cheeks flushing separately from the alcohol when the door swings open. Rodrigue raises an eyebrow at the two of their red faces. “You two all right?”

Sylvain recovers first. “All thanks to you, Mr. Fraldarius! We’ve been stuck in that closet for the last half hour.”

Rodrigue stares at them both and Ingrid’s face reddens further under his scrutiny. “And pray tell, how did _both_ of you get stuck in there?”

Sylvain isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol talking or if he’s talking out of his ass, but his mouth is moving. _As it is wont to do_. “Well, Ingrid and I were having one of our disagreements, as per usual. And I guess today, Felix just _had_ enough. Shoved us both into this closet to work out our differences.” Rodrigue raises a skeptical eyebrow, but Sylvain blazes through. “Called it ‘our get along closet’. Ingenious, if you ask me.”

“Did it work?” Sylvain opens his mouth to respond but Rodrigue quickly holds up a hand. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

He turns his attention to Ingrid. “You doing okay? Stuck in a closet for half an hour with this one…” he jerks his head at Sylvain, who plays it up by gasping loudly.

Ingrid inhales deeply, color slowly returning to normal as she pointedly ignores her throbbing heart. She nudges Sylvain in the ribs. “Doing as well as expected, all things considered.”

The quirk of her lips that come after her words cuts through him. Cuts open an old wound he didn’t know he had.

He could’ve sworn she kissed him.

Ingrid follows Rodrigue out of the room they hid out in and that same sense of heaviness settles over him and his heart _aches_.

_He wants her to kiss him._

* * *

Their windows are rolled down and if it weren’t for the light breeze that blows through the car, Ingrid would’ve choked Sylvain by now, with his _incessant_ finger-tapping on the dashboard. Eyebrow twitching, she unbuckles her seatbelt to stretch her back. “How long have we been in park now?”

The finger-tapping stops and she almost breathes a sigh of relief. “Maybe just under ten minutes. Why?”

“Because I’m about to get out of this damn car and walk the rest of the way myself.”

Sylvain raises his eyebrows at her. “You’re going to walk… all the way to Derdriu?”

“Better than being stuck in this hot stuffy car.”

Ingrid blinks as Sylvain’s face appears in her vision, cheeky smile on his lips. His arm reaches over her shoulder and her breath hitches as his eyes find hers. A flush climbs the back of her neck when his eyes drop to her lips. Sylvain’s heat draws closer and Ingrid’s heart kicks up in her chest, eyes fluttering closed with the smell of him surrounding her.

_Click._

Ingrid’s eyes fly open and Sylvain is back in his seat, fingers tapping again, now on the steering wheel. “I thought you were going to say, ‘better than being stuck with you’. I’m touched, Ing. I love this character growth for you.”

She rolls her eyes and adjusts the seatbelt Sylvain refastened while he puts the car back in drive. “Don’t make me break your fingers.”

One of his hands reach back over and his fingers tangle with hers in her lap. “Then hold them hostage,” he throws her a wink before his eyes go back to the road, “gives me more incentive to behave.”

Ingrid squeezes his fingers in warning but smiles as the warmth in their connected hands spreads to the rest of her body, her eyes lingering on the way his hand fits in hers.

* * *

Sylvain’s palms are sweaty and are getting sweatier by the second as Ingrid tries the door to the roof one more time. Her defeated groan is followed by the yank of his right wrist toward Ingrid’s face and he is cruelly reminded of Hilda’s smirking face as she clicked the handcuffs shut. “’ _It’s for your own good’_ , she said…”

“What did you say?”

Sylvain tenses and finds Ingrid’s mildly irritated face glaring at him. “Nothing!”

She raises an eyebrow at him, and he resists the urge to run a hand through his hair, since it would pull Ingrid’s hand with it— _actually, would that be so bad?_

A swift kick to the door from Ingrid’s boots startles him out of his thoughts and he pulls her back before she delivers another, their connected wrists jangling awkwardly. “Whoa there, Ing. Save your toes.”

She huffs at him. “I’m _trying_ to save us from being stuck out here.”

He sighs. “I’m pretty sure Dorothea locked the door after shoving us out here.”

He hears Ingrid curse under her breath and scrunches her nose. “Why couldn’t you have picked ‘ _truth’_ instead.”

His breath stutters. _Because he knows what Dorothea and Hilda would ask, and it’s something he’s not ready to answer._ He shrugs. “You know me, can’t back down from a challenge.”

Ingrid sighs and her shoulders drop. “And what exactly are we supposed to be doing until then, stuck out here on the roof and handcuffed together?”

Sylvain tips his head back and breathes in deep, eyes finding her face illuminated by the backdrop of city lights. His heart tightens in his chest and gestures to the ground. “Watch the stars with me?”

The only response he gets is the tugging of his wrist as Ingrid takes a seat on the ground. He hurriedly folds his legs underneath him and joins her, scooting closer when a light breeze ruffles her hair and makes her shiver. His ears burn when she nestles into the crook of his neck. “How long are we out here for?”

“Probably until sunrise, knowing Dorothea and Hilda.”

“…Sunrise?”

“Well, you wake up at the crack of dawn on a regular basis, so this really isn’t any different—”

Ingrid moves to elbow him in the ribs but gets caught with her arm chained to his. He smiles when she huffs and sticks her tongue out at him. “It’s my favorite time of day, sue me.”

He laughs as she settles for headbutting his shoulder instead. “I know, but _why_? It’s so _early._ ”

It’s her turn to shrug and they quiet down, sky lightening by the minute. Only sounds of their breathing fill his ears and Ingrid rests her head back against him, mumbling, “no matter how bad the current day gets, there’s always tomorrow. The sun always rises, and there’s always the start of something new.”

Sylvain’s heart thumps in his chest and before he can change his mind, he presses a kiss to the top of her soft hair. “Start of something new, huh?”

A warmth blossoms in the center of his palm as Ingrid laces their fingers together and he feels that pause in time again when her thumb brushes against his knuckles.

* * *

The Ferris wheel cranks to a stop as soon as they reach the top and Ingrid is no longer surprised at this point. She slumps back in her seat and rolls her head to glare at Sylvain accusingly. “This is all your fault.”

He raises at his eyebrows at her, smile playing at his lips and she is _unfairly_ distracted by them. “While I’m inclined to agree, I don’t think I caused this one.”

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sylvain, how long have we known each other?”

“Pretty much all our lives.”

“ _Right._ So, in my entire lifetime, the only times I ever get stuck in odd places is with you?”

His smile grows and he pushes his face closer to hers. “And here I thought you enjoyed my company, Ing. Besides, we got through all of them, didn’t we? Together.”

She wills the blush from her cheeks and turns her head to meet his gaze, nose to nose. For a brief second, Sylvain’s face is covered in dust and soot, then she blinks, and it’s gone. She blinks several more times, because she _swears_ his hair turned brown in the sunset—

His hand on her cheek startles her out of her thoughts. “Ing? You okay?” He’s staring back at her, eyes wide, lips parted. Her eyes drop involuntarily down to them before they dart back up, her mouth dry. “Yeah. Fine. I’m fine.”

She sees him nod absently, but his hand doesn’t move. Ingrid’s not sure she wants it to. She inhales sharply when he tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. His eyes look faraway, but they’re still searching her face and—“I love you, Ingrid.”

Her heart stops. “Sylvain… I—”

His hand drops away from her face and she clasps it tightly before he retreats too far away from her to reach. She squeezes his fingers. “Sylvain, I love you too, just…” She feels him tense next to her. “When?”

He blinks at her and something shifts around them. “What?”

Ingrid licks her lips and warms when she sees his eyes drop to her mouth. “When did…” She uses her free hand to gesture the space between them. “When did this change for you?”

Sylvain blinks again. “You love me?”

If it weren’t for the caution that lines his shoulders, Ingrid might’ve laughed at his sudden loss of words. “Yes, I do, but—”

Then, she’s being crushed to his chest, head tucked under his chin, her ear pressed against his chest where she hears the pounding of his heart. His arms tighten around her as she tries to pull back. “ _Sylvain_ —”

“Probably since forever.”

She stills and he shifts until they’re nose to nose again, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “I don’t know when it changed. I don’t know if it ever changed. It feels like I’ve loved you since forever.”

Ingrid’s skin tingles as her hands move to hold his face, her thumbs brushing along his cheeks and his eyes flutter closed as she leans in closer, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. She leans back just so and smiles. “Guess I’m stuck with you.”

Her chest tightens with the thudding of her heart, another set of words ringing in her ears when he tilts his head and catches her in a full kiss, moving his lips slowly with hers.

_I’ve loved you since the very first time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s/o as per usual to the sylvgrid discord for giving me a bunch of prompts for bad ideas: stuck edition :)
> 
> just a few more fluff chapters until this poem runs away with my heart and leaves angst behind...


	10. discerning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When we meet as adults you’re always much more discerning. I don’t blame you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s/o to nicole_writes for helping me name these two kiddos <3

Sylvain’s heart drops into his stomach when he sees his daughter tugging a blond haired boy toward where he sits on the bench outside of her school. Her hand is wrapped tightly around his and her green eyes are sparkling. He does his best to plaster on a smile when she gets closer. “Sweetie? Who’s this?”

Her smile grows bigger. “This is Elliot!”

His eyes travel over to the boy his daughter dragged over and takes quick note of the scratches on his knees and elbows, his face hidden by his floppy fringe. “Elliot?”

Brown eyes flash up to him and Sylvain chokes on a sharp inhale with the way the boy’s gaze pierces through him. He feels a strange sort of pressure digging into his back as he works through his coughing fit. His daughter lets go of Elliot’s hand and leaps into his lap, eyes wide and worried. “Daddy? Are you okay?”

The pressure on his back eases as his daughter unhelpfully squishes his cheeks, his breath slowly coming back to him. He laughs lightly and takes her hands off his face and smushes them against her own. “I’m fine, Noelle.” His eyes find similarly scraped knees and he frowns. “Are you and Elliot okay?”

He sees the boy grimace, but Noelle just as quickly scrambles out of his lap and pushes Elliot even closer. Then, Sylvain sees the purple on his forehead. His daughter is already talking before he can voice his next question, “I saw Elliot fighting some bullies at recess! I was gonna grab a teacher, but then they _pushed_ him over and hit his head. So, _of course_ I had to run over there and push them over too!”

He raises an eyebrow, both proud and exasperated. “And the scrapes on your hands and knees?”

She pouts and shakes her head furiously, ginger hair flying around her face. “This isn’t about _me_ , it’s about Elliot!”

His eyes go back to the boy, who’s hiding his face behind his hair again. He debates reaching out, asking to take a look at the damage because he _knows_ bruises, but then—

“Elliot?”

The boy’s head whips around so fast, Sylvain rubs at his own neck to soothe the non-existent pain. _To be young again…_

He follows Elliot’s redirected attention and comes face-to-face with blonde hair and green eyes. His breath catches in his chest again and that pressure in his back returns. He misses the pause in her step because his eyes are locked onto her face.

She blinks at him a few more times before she quickly shakes her head and ducks down in front of Elliot, hands fluttering to his face. She sighs and Sylvain feels oddly reprimanded too. “Again, Elliot? This is the fifth time this week, and it’s only _Wednesday_.”

“Well, they keep _talking_ about you.”

An odd buzzing fills his ears as he watches Elliot’s shoulders bounce up and down as his mother continues to fuss over him, her forehead wrinkling when she brushes his bangs out of his face.

His daughter joins him on the bench, and it quiets. “Daddy?”

He blinks and smiles down at her. “Yes, gingersnap?”

Noelle is quiet as she watches Elliot’s mother sigh again and press a quick kiss to his cheek, holding his hand as she straightens up. Then, her eyes turn to them and to his surprise, his daughter tucks herself into his side, using his arm to cover part of her face as she walks closer.

Elliot’s mother sends him a raised eyebrow and the corner of her lip quirks up. It sends a flush up the back of his neck. Before he can think too much about it, she tucks her knees and bends down in front of his daughter. “Would you happen to be Miss Noelle?”

His daughter peeks from behind his sleeve and nods meekly. _Not like her at all._ “Well, it’s _nice_ to meet you, Miss Noelle. Elliot was telling me how you ran over to fight with him. That was very brave of you.”

The smile on her face is _soft_ , and Sylvain’s eyes are glued to it. Just like his daughter’s eyes are too. When the silence stretches on for too long and that smile turns slightly amused, Sylvain nudges his daughter. “What do you say, Noelle?”

His daughter fidgets and her eyes suddenly find her shoes very interesting. “…Thank you.”

“And what do you say, Elliot?”

Elliot straightens up and his face brightens. “Thanks for fighting with me Noelle. We’ll get them next time now that there’s two of us!”

“ _Elliot—”_

Sylvain doesn’t catch his snort in time when his daughter jumps off the bench and pumps her fists in the air. “Two of us!”

He hears Elliot’s mother sigh again and he catches her eye. She smiles weakly at him. “I don’t know if I should be thanking you for raising such a brave daughter, or if I should be reprimanding you for your daughter’s willingness to jump into fights.”

“I’d take both from you.”

She raises an eyebrow at him and he flushes. _Again._ “Not hitting on you! Just, uh, telling the truth. I take compliments. And criticisms. I take compliments and criticisms.”

Now both of her eyebrows are raised, and Sylvain feels like melting into the bench. He’s saved by Elliot tugging on her arm and he decides _maybe the boy is okay after all._ “Mom, can we go get ice cream?”

Her skeptical look is back on her son and he feels like he can breathe again. “Of all the people here, I think Noelle is the one who deserves ice cream.”

Noelle is suddenly shy again, but her puppy eyes are turned onto him, _pleading._ He caves. “You want ice cream, Noelle?”

He spies Elliot giving his mother the same eyes and he watches her crumble too. Sighing once more, she turns back to him. “Would you like to get ice cream with us, Mister…?”

“Gautier, but call me Sylvain. Please.”

Her eyes widen briefly, and he watches her lips silently form his name. With a few blinks, she shakes her head and extends a hand. “Ingrid Galatea.”

Sylvain clasps her hand and he can’t help but feel something click into place.

* * *

Noelle is munching happily away on her waffle cone while he tries hard not to stare at the way Elliot and Ingrid inhale the sundae bowl they shared.

There’s a smudge of chocolate on the corner of her mouth and he snickers. Her eyes flicker to him and he taps the side of his lips.

He very nearly chokes when her tongue darts out to clean the chocolate and she hums in delight.

“Your ice cream is melting, daddy.”

Sure enough, something cold lands on his knuckle. Without a second thought, he licks the drop of ice cream off his hand, as well as the melted trail threatening more dripping. He ruffles her hair. “Thanks, sweetie.”

He misses the faint pink on the cheeks sitting across from them.

* * *

Noelle toddles into his room like she usually does and climbs onto his bed, situating herself between his legs as she shoves her green comb into his hands. He snickers as he watches her practically vibrate in place as he begins to brush out her long hair. “Too much ice cream?”

She pauses for just a second before she whips around to face him. He blinks at her sparkling eyes as she smiles wide at him.

He loses his breath.

_What about some cute ginger babies? Can you see it now?_

His head is spinning and the pressure on his back digs even deeper, his hands are numb and—

“Daddy? Are you crying?”

Sylvain blinks again and Noelle’s pudgy fingers are wiping gently at his eyes. He drops the brush and tucks his daughter into his chest, burying his face into her hair, his blood pounding in his ears.

He hears the distant laughter of children, a girl _and_ a boy. He smells roses. He can _feel_ the soft brush of fingers against his cheeks and—

Noelle pushes against him and he flickers back to the present. “Daddy?”

His eyes refocus on his daughter’s face and he smooths back her hair. “Sorry, sweetheart. I… I love you so much, you know? I know it hasn’t been easy, just the two of us.”

Noelle settles back against his chest and the beating of his heart calms. The two of them sit like that for a while, breathing slow and deep. Memories that aren’t his but _feel_ like his echo in his head.

Pink and green hair.

A large oak tree.

The flutter of a white dress.

“Daddy?”

The memories dissipate and he’s back on his bed with his daughter in his lap. “Yes, gingersnap?”

She falls silent again and burrows deeper into him, he barely catches her next words. “Miss Galatea is nice…”

His breath catches in his throat and he gulps. “She is, isn’t she?”

Noelle’s fingers twist in his shirt. “She’s pretty too…”

His heart skips a beat and he hums in agreement, not trusting his voice when he thinks back to the way her green eyes cut through him. The way Noelle watched Ingrid’s gentle hands, and how she shied away with Ingrid’s soft smile. His daughter quiets again, her tiny breaths washing over his skin and he can almost _hear_ her thinking. His thumbs brush over the band-aids on her knees when she speaks again, “does it have to be just the two of us?”

_Guess I’m stuck with you._

The words ring in his ears, but he blocks it out, instead focusing on how his daughter is giving him the puppy eyes again. He sighs dramatically and falls backward onto his pillows, taking Noelle with him as his hands start tickling her sides. She shrieks in delight and he smiles. “What, are you sick of me already?”

His daughter tries to bat his hands away, but years of dodging fighting legs during diaper changes _alone_ gives him the advantage. “I’ve been with only you my entire life! Of _course_ I’m sick of you!”

Sylvain gasps loudly and redoubles his efforts. “ _Your entire life—_ you’re only eight! What do _you_ know?!”

There are tears in her eyes when she finally slips off his bed and lands on the carpet with a _thud._ He peers over the edge, just to check she didn’t land on her head, when Noelle yanks his hand so hard, he tumbles and joins her on the floor with a much louder _thump_.

“ _I know_ that you think Miss Galatea is pretty, and that you couldn’t stop staring at her over ice cream.”

“Hey, wait a second—”

“ _And_ I know that she was staring at you too.”

“She what—”

“ _AND_ , I know that Elliot gets into fights with the bullies because they call Miss Galatea mean names because she’s alone.” His mind screeches to a halt and the pit of his stomach burns. Noelle frowns at his silence and mutters, “they used to call you mean names too. That’s why I went to fight with Elliot.”

His throat tightens. “Noelle—”

“I want you to be happy, daddy.”

His heart constricts in his chest. “I _am_ happy, Noelle. I have you, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

She huffs and climbs into his lap again, smushing his cheeks with her hands. “You are happy, daddy, but you _aren’t_.”

Sylvain sighs, leaning forward to press a kiss to his daughter’s forehead.

Another memory floats to the surface, a pair of lips ghosting over his forehead as gentle hands cup his face.

_Sylvain, I lo—_

“So, you should just marry Miss Galatea! Then neither of you are alone _and_ Elliot and I don’t have to fight anymore!”

He was able to keep his flaming cheeks to a minimum over ice cream, but he’s not as successful now. “That’s not how it works, gingersnap—”

She huffs and crosses her arms. “Well, it _should_ be. How hard can it be?”

* * *

Turns out, _very_ hard.

Not like he didn’t expect it to be, but his daughter just has this way of wrapping him around her little finger and he’ll bend every which way to make her smile, and she somehow convinced him to do this.

To get Ingrid Galatea’s number.

It wasn’t just nerves. He _has_ nerve. It’s more so the fact that she doesn’t give him the time of day. With the harried way she approaches them every day after school, to where Elliot waits with him and Noelle, hair coming loose out of her braids, Sylvain figures she doesn’t even _have_ the time to pay attention to him.

So instead, he sits on the bench outside of school, Noelle and Elliot swinging their legs next to him, chatting animatedly and comparing the scrapes on their knees.

He absently checks his watch and wrings his wrists. _She’s later than usual._

He looks back over to the kids, now leaning against each other as the minutes go by. The bruise on Elliot’s forehead is mostly gone, there’s a green, peeling band-aid on his elbow that he absently picks at, but his eyes are glued to the parking lot. Watching and waiting.

He feels his heart tug.

“Everything okay at home buddy?”

Elliot’s eyes turn to his and nods. “Mom’s busy, that’s all.”

His heart tugs again. “Is she—”

“I’ll never be too busy that I don’t have time for you. Sorry I’m late again, honey.”

Elliot quickly nudges Noelle off his shoulder and jumps up to throw his arms around Ingrid. She scoops him up into a hug and shoots Sylvain a grateful smile, silently mouthing a quick ‘ _thank you_ ’.

She doesn’t have any braids in today, her hair fluttering free around her chin as she turns on her heel and hurries back to her car, Elliot in her arms.

He watches the sun catch in the blonde strands and he feels his chest tighten. A tiny hand pokes him in the ribs. “You were supposed to ask her, daddy.”

He sighs. “Why can’t you ask Elliot for his mom’s number for me?”

His daughter blinks at him. “Why should I help you?”

He blinks right back and raises his eyebrows. “This was _your_ idea, gingersnap.”

Noelle matches his expression and crosses her arms. “Just ask yourself.”

Sylvain crosses his arms too. “I’m not going to ask _an eight year old boy_ for his mom’s number.”

His daughter has the _audacity_ to scoff at him and he gapes at her. _When did he raise such a sassy little—_ “I meant _ask her yourself,_ dumbo.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “ _Noelle—_ ”

She sighs dramatically and leans heavily against him, throwing an arm over her eyes. “Daddy, she’s not going to fall in love with you if _I’m_ doing all the hard work!”

He chokes on his own spit and wonders exactly _how many_ of his theatrical behaviors his daughter picked up from him. He sighs just as dramatically and swings her up onto his shoulders. “ _Fine._ I’ll ask her.”

* * *

He does _not_ ask her.

Instead, he gets it from the last parent-teacher association meeting.

Ingrid had just barely made it on time, work-shirt unbuttoned at her collar, Sylvain felt his throat dry as he lifted his jacket from the seat next to him and jerked his head toward it when she caught his eye.

She hurried over to him and nodded gratefully, taking the agenda he handed her as she sat next to him. The meeting began and he’s _trying_ to pay attention, but Ingrid was smoothing out her skirt as she shifted on the plastic chair. _Then_ , she’s ruffling her hair to push it out of her face and it sent a wave of citrus and orange blossoms toward him _and he_ —

“Any volunteers for next week’s bake sale?”

There were a few murmurs among the parents, but no one raised their hand. Then, “I can give it a try. The bakery’s been trying out new recipes recently. Any allergy restrictions besides nuts?”

Sylvain blinked at the woman next to him. She’d looked exhausted, dark circles just barely hidden behind concealer, but her eyes were bright as more hands lifted into the air to contribute to the bake sale.

He doesn’t hear a single word for the rest of the meeting, far too distracted by the way Ingrid slouched back in her chair and rolled her head over to him. He _definitely_ didn’t hear about next week’s agenda because Ingrid leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “Thanks for saving me a seat.”

He doesn’t get to reply because she’s out of her chair and already coordinating baked goods with the other parents who volunteered.

His eyes trailed after her as she quickly scribbled something down on a sheet of paper and flew out the door, her blonde hair fluttering behind her.

That same pen and paper is shoved into his face and he blinked. The orange haired homeroom teacher smiled brightly at him. “For emergency contact purposes. We figured it’d be nice to collect all the parent’s numbers and send it out to the entire group.”

His eyes jumped to the previous scrawling script. _Ingrid Brandl Galatea._

Maybe he stared for just a second too long, because Miss Dominic cleared her throat. “Mr. Gautier?”

Sylvain shook his head and hastily scratched out his name and number, his mind already running a sequence of numbers on repeat.

It’s not until he gets home and receives a spreadsheet of every parent’s contact information that his mind rests. His finger hovers over ‘ _save as new contact_ ’ under the string of numbers already imprinted into his brain. Even without the spreadsheet.

_Is this cheating?_

Noelle bursts into his room with her homework and he tosses his phone to the side.

It saves without a name.

* * *

Noelle slams into him when he picks her up after school with five individually wrapped brownies and she is just _vibrating_ with excitement. He doesn’t get a word in edgewise, because as soon as he opens his mouth, she shoves one of the brownies in.

Sylvain doesn’t even have time to be offended because the chocolate coats his tongue and he automatically starts chewing. Noelle is _still_ bouncing up and down when he finally swallows the chunk in his mouth, and he laughs. “Bake sale haul, huh? How many of those did you eat?”

His daughter dumps the rest of the brownies into his hands and starts counting on her fingers. His eyebrows raise when she holds up her second hand and keeps going. He snorts and tugs her backpack open, placing the treats into her bag and hauls her up into his arms. “And who do I have to thank for the inevitable chaos I’m going to face when we get home?”

Noelle smiles toothily at him. “Elliot and Miss Galatea!”

His heart skips a beat. “Right. Of course. She volunteered to bake for this.”

“Can you make these at home too?”

He thinks back to all the kitchen disasters early on in Noelle’s childhood and shudders involuntarily. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, gingersnap. Miss Galatea works in a bakery. _I_ should be kept away from the oven at all times.”

His daughter pats his cheek twice, smile changing into something he wishes she didn’t learn from him. “How did you know she works in a bakery?”

His mind flickers back to the parent-teacher association meeting and the smell of her hair and his cheeks heat. Noelle’s smile widens. He plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek until she squeals and pushes his face away from hers. “Parent-teacher meeting, you brat.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and crosses her arms. “Well if you talked to her enough to find _that_ out, did you ask for her number yet?”

His phone weighs heavily in his pocket and he gulps. “ _No._ ”

His daughter throws her hands up and he almost drops her. “ _Daddy!_ ”

“I’m _working on it_.”

* * *

He’s already got Ingrid’s number and he still hasn’t told Noelle.

Because knowing her, she’d never let him live down the fact that he never asked and lifted it from the school spreadsheet.

Noelle _also_ doesn’t stop bothering him about those brownies. She keeps bringing at least three home with her, having already eaten two at school.

She always saves one for him, and _damn it_ he can’t stop thinking about the brownies either.

“Daddy, make the brownies.”

He sighs. “Can’t I just buy some from the store for you?”

Noelle climbs onto his lap and shoves her face into his. “It’s not the _same._ ”

Sylvain tweaks her nose and smiles as she pushes his hand away. “I can _guarantee_ that my brownies will not be the same as Miss Galatea’s, gingersnap.”

His daughter gets a glint in her eye and he just _knows_ what’s coming next before she even says it—“Then get the recipe from her!”

He groans dramatically. “Are you sure I can’t just buy brownies from the grocery store?”

He doesn’t even flinch when he gets double slap on his cheeks. “This is your _in_ old man! _Ask her!_ ”

Noelle is almost _glaring_ at him and he flops back onto his pillows, sighing in defeat. “ _Fine._ I’ll ask her.”

* * *

By some miracle, Ingrid isn’t hurrying over toward their usual bench outside of school. Instead, she’s walking calmly, her braids still neat in her hair. Elliot still launches himself at her and her following laughter sends his heart fluttering.

He gets a sharp elbow in his side and he shoots his daughter a dirty look. Noelle shoots him one just as nasty and whispers sharply, “ _ask her._ ”

Sylvain huffs at her but stands all the same. Noelle grabs his hand as he does, and they walk over to Ingrid and Elliot together. As soon as they’re close enough, Noelle drops his hand and snatches Elliot's instead, dragging him just a few feet away and she has the _nerve_ to send him a wink.

He rolls his eyes at her, but that mild annoyance quickly turns into mortification when he hears Ingrid laugh again. She has one arm crossed over her stomach, the other covering her mouth as she unsuccessfully tries to stifle her laughter. Heat high on his cheeks, Sylvain crosses his arms. “What?”

Still snickering, Ingrid shakes her head and wipes a tear from her eyes. “She’s really a spitting image of you, isn’t she?”

His chest tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She raises an amused eyebrow at him, and he sighs. “It’s not like I _meant_ for her to become such a brat.”

“Well, she’s gotten Elliot to socialize more, so I guess I should thank you for that.”

Sylvain lets his arm drop to his sides, his breath catching in his throat at the soft smile on her face as she looks at their kids. They’re laughing about something while Noelle gestures wildly at something in the sky.

_The laughter of children. The smell of roses. The soft smile and sunshine hair—_

“Also, I want to thank you for waiting with Elliot after school all this time. It means a lot, considering how I’m late on most days.”

He looks back at her, the soft smile now directed at him and his heartbeat skyrockets. His mouth moves faster than he can stop it. “Then, how about you thank me with that brownie recipe?”

Ingrid’s eyebrows knit as a small, confused laugh escapes her. “What?”

Sylvain gulps and his eyes dart over to where Noelle gives him a pointed look, accompanied by an extremely obnoxious thumbs up. He groans when Ingrid turns back to look at their kids and he drags a hand over his face. “Ever since the bake sale, Noelle has been pestering me non-stop about your brownies. She wants me to make them for her, despite the countless number of times I’ve told her the oven is my sworn enemy.”

She barely hides her snort and he feels the heat in his cheeks reach his ears. “So, you’re a disaster in the kitchen, but you still want the recipe? You don’t want anything else?”

Sylvain’s mind screeches to a halt with the quirk of her lips. He blinks rapidly at her as he tries to remember how to call forth words again. She laughs again and holds her hand out. “Give me your phone. I’ll text it to you.”

Mind still not entirely in place, he hands it over without a second thought.

It’s not until she starts typing in her number when he remembers. “ _Wait—”_

Ingrid’s eyebrows shoot up. “You… already have my number?”

Sylvain is _sweating_. Both of his hands fly up and his brain _still_ isn’t at full capacity and he’s tripping over his words, “I got it from the parent teacher thing that Miss Dominic sent out. I, uh, figured I should save your number because, um. Because Elliot gets into so many fights? So, I figured, y’know, that I should have your contact information for, er, emergencies?”

Ingrid stares at him in silence and Sylvain prays to every deity he knows to strike him down, _now_. _Maybe Noelle could go live with Ingrid and Elliot, he’s not really needed anymore, right—?_

His phone is placed back in his hands and Ingrid has this _smile_ on her face that sends his heart haywire.

“…Right. Well, I need to get going. Let me know how the recipe turns out.”

He just barely stutters out a ‘ _bye_ ’ at her retreating back when Noelle tugs on his hand. “ _Well_?”

Ingrid sends him a brief wave from her car, Elliot following suit quickly after, that _smile_ still on her face. He swallows thickly and turns back to his daughter, an incredulous look on her face. “I, uh, got her number?”

His daughter looks completely unimpressed. _He is too._ “What about the recipe?”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow at her. “I thought the number was more important to you?”

“We are _well_ past that now, daddy. Now did you get the recipe or not?”

He ruffles her hair and sticks his tongue out at her when she whines. “She said she’ll text it to me. Be patient!”

Noelle slaps his hands away and glares at him. “Does she have your number?”

He pauses. “Uh—”

“How is she supposed to text you the recipe if she doesn’t have your number?”

“Then _I’ll_ just text her first. Do you think your dad’s really that hopeless?”

She raises an eyebrow at him and doesn’t bring it up again the entire car ride home.

He’s not sure how to feel about that.

* * *

Noelle is right and Sylvain is _so_ hopeless. He put her to sleep about an hour ago and he’s lying down in bed, _still_ staring at a blank text message to Ingrid, their last conversation swimming in his head. _Emergencies. Because her son gets into a lot of fights?_ He is _such_ an idiot. _How did he forget he_ _saved her number. She must think he’s some creepy, child-insulting, good-for-nothing—_

His phone buzzes and he springs up from his bed.

_Ingrid Galatea has sent an attachment._

He hurriedly unlocks his phone, staring blankly as his phone buzzes again.

_Ingrid: Here’s the recipe. Good luck, it should be easy enough. Bet you can do it without burning your house down._

Sylvain’s head is spinning as the typing bubble pops up one more time.

_Bet you won’t fall in love with me—_

_Ingrid:_ _It’s ok. I got your number from the parent-teacher spreadsheet too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was 1.3k words  
> then i got bullied into expanding it bc apparently i'm not allowed to leave things unresolved
> 
> and _now_ there's a continuation of this chapter that can be found [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640052/chapters/64963864)


	11. forgive me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet, always, you forgive me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I go to sleep on Aug 2 happy and excited for a new rotation.
> 
> I wake up on Aug 3 with three knives stuck in my back, courtesy of _email_ via nicole_writes and paperpenpal
> 
> _not to mention the shadow drop from emiwaka29_
> 
> and literally every other update at the end of july that was literally designed to kill me
> 
> this and the next two chapters are retaliation and to avenge my fellow victim trixstar
> 
> y'all _suck_

Sylvain is walking through a hazy mist among towering hedges and he gets the sinking feeling that he’s been here before. Gravel crunches beneath his feet and he tries to quell the churning in his stomach that begs him to call out. The fog around him is heavy on his skin and he feels his chest tighten.

He opens his mouth and everything around him tilts.

The pebbles and fog disappear and he’s standing in front of a large swaying oak tree, a pile of white roses sitting at the base of the trunk. He hears the tinkling laughter of a girl and a boy and his heart _stings._ He whirls around, but there’s no one in sight.

Sylvain takes a step away from the tree and the world around him shifts again.

He’s sitting on a bench outside of a school. He doesn’t see any children.

He blinks and he’s standing on the beach, sand digging into his heels with the crashing waves of the ocean before him, seashells littered at his feet.

He blinks again and he hears the sickening crackle of the spines on the Lance of Ruin. His heart stops. His armor creaks as he drops the relic like it’s burned him. There are horns sounding off in the distance.

He doesn’t know what they mean.

There’s something circling in the sky above him, then it _dives,_ and he reflexively shuts his eyes, his arms automatically crossing before his face and chest.

No impact comes.

He takes a stuttering breath and Sylvain opens his eyes. His armor is gone, but his shirt is sticky on his back and the setting sun casts an orange glow over him. He’s in a greenhouse. He hears the slam of a door and the humidity in the air makes it hard to breathe. His eyes sweep his surroundings, his blood pounding in his ears, fists clenched tight, prepared for the world to drop out from beneath him again.

Then he spots her.

Floaty white dress.

Golden blonde braid.

Her back is turned away from him. A name bubbles from his throat as his hand reaches out. “…Ingrid?”

He watches her shoulders straighten, her hair shifts, and her chin turns toward him, her lips parting—

Then he’s alone in darkened hallway, an old portrait staring back at him at the end of it.

His throat constricts and his feet carry him forward without his volition. He wants to _stop_ , he wants to _turn back_ , but his vision tunnels and his fingers brush against the ancient paint and—

Sylvain springs up in bed with a choked gasp for air, his hair matted to his forehead, dripping in sweat. The blankets are a tangled mess around his legs and he’s almost halfway off the bed. He kicks them free, but the moment he does, the pressure behind his eyes _spikes_ and his vision goes blurry.

His breaths come in short stuttering puffs, the heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets to _stop the throbbing._ His chest is caving in, his heart is pounding against his ribs, and there’s a sharp high-pitched ringing in his ears that just won’t _stop_ and _Goddess, where is he?_

_When is he?_

_Where is Ingrid?_

He blindly stumbles out of bed, shoulders knocking into the doorframe on his way out. His mind doesn’t know where he is, _when he is_ , but at least his muscle memory still guides him to the bathroom.

His hands leave his eyes, wet with salty tears. Sylvain flips the faucet up and immediately splashes the frigid water onto his face. He inhales sharply at the change in temperature, but he keeps at it until his lungs burn and his heart calms.

He stays there, leaning over his sink, fingers gripping the edges until his knuckles turn white. Water continues to drip down his face as his stomach flips uncomfortably.

Sylvain finally opens his eyes.

His hair is red and his eyes are brown.

There are no scars on his chest, nor on his arms.

There is no ring on his finger.

His heart twists and his mind echoes. _There isn’t always a ring._

He takes a huge gulp of air and continues to gather his bearings, the buzzing in his ears only slightly diminished.

The bathroom is clean. There are two sets of everything.

Two towels hanging on the door. Two sets of hair products in the shower. Two toothbrushes lined up in the corner.

Face wash. Hair gel. Make up. Lipstick.

His heart twists again.

Sylvain whips out of the bathroom, back to the bedroom. Queen-sized bed. Two pillows. Shared closet and dresser. Collared shirts and dresses.

Green ribbons.

He runs out to the main entrance.

He spots shoes that can only be his. He also spots smaller sneakers, ankle boots, and sensible heels.

He wants to feel calm. He wants to feel _reassured._

His heart won’t stop pounding in his chest.

The lock on the door clicks and flips. His shoulders tense. “Sylvain? Are you awake?”

The room stops spinning and his ears stop buzzing.

The door cracks open and Sylvain crashes into Ingrid, his arms crushing her to him, his face pressing into the crook of her neck so he can feel her pulse against his skin. Her arms immediately wrap around him, one around his waist, the other around his back with her hand finding a home in his hair. It eases the pressure mounting in his chest, her voice resonating through him. “Sylvain? What’s wrong?”

His initial sense of peace, granted by holding her, is shattered. Suddenly, he feels rushed.

 _Incredibly_ rushed.

He pulls away from her, his eyes are stinging with the tears from earlier, but his vision is _just_ clear enough to take her in.

Her hair is blonde and her eyes are green.

Her hands are smooth, soft, _untouched_ by the calluses of training lances and horses’ reins.

There is no ring on her finger. _There isn’t always a ring._

Ingrid’s eyes are wide. Wide, worried, _confused._ His heart drops into his stomach. His mouth moves without warning. “Do you remember?”

She blinks, her confusion only growing as he grows more desperate with each passing second she doesn’t respond. “…Remember what?”

Sylvain searches her face, his grip tightening on her as his heartrate picks up again. _She’s here. She’s here. She’s here._

But she’s _not_.

He swallows thickly and wets his lips. “Do you remember what day it is today?” _A safer question._

The corner of her mouth quirks up, but her eyes are still worried. “Is this a trick question?”

He does his best to breathe evenly. Does his best to be the Sylvain that’s _hers_ in this lifetime. “Please?”

_Goddess, he hopes he’s hers._

She shifts in his arms, her hands dropping away from him and for a split _terrifying_ second, he thinks she’s going to push him away. That he’s _not_ hers, and _she’s_ not his, and that he’s crossed some invisible boundary that exists in this lifetime.

But she only leans away to pick up the things she dropped the moment he crashed into her. The door was still open and she kicks it closed. He can’t bring himself to care.

He smells roses.

He blinks and Ingrid is back in his sight, a bouquet of white roses resting between them as she rolls her eyes at him. “It’s your 27th birthday. You _know_ I wouldn’t forget.”

_27 th birthday. He’s 27. What do the roses mean? Have they changed? Did they ever change?_

Soft velvety petals brush against his bare skin, slim fingers trail along his jaw, he’s back to staring into endless depths of green.

His voice is dry and he’s pretty sure it cracks, but he doesn’t care. He has to know, _has to ask_ —“Can I kiss you?”

She stills against him and her lips part. “Sylvain, I…”

Part of him wants to let go. Let go because he’s not hers. She’s not his. And he needs to _let go_ unless he wants to get burned again—

“Sylvain.”

The roses fall to the side, their petals leaving a dewy trail on his abdomen as they go. Hands. _Soft, non-calloused_ hands cup his face and he’s being pulled down, down, down.

Her lips are warm against his and she breathes life back into his chest.

His arms tighten around her and they bring her impossibly closer. Her legs shift, stepping back as he walks her to the closed door. Sylvain tilts his head, catching her little gasp with a swipe of his tongue as he settles both their weights onto the cool metal.

He leans heavily into her warmth, his hands trailing along her sides, along her thigh as it climbs to his hip. He breaks off, reattaching his lips to the side of her neck as he hoists her up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he presses them further against the door.

Sylvain feels her shudder against him as he ghosts over her ear, nipping it gently and groaning when her nails dig into his scalp. His lips find hers again, where he whispers _‘I love you, I love you’_ over and over again. He doesn’t have time to breathe. She’s _here,_ but _she’s_ not, but she’s here _now._

And he can never, _ever,_ get enough of her.

And he can’t stop. He can’t stop because what if, _what if_ , when he stops, he wakes up without her?

Ingrid breaks away from him a sharp gasp, hands sliding to his chest, pressing lightly so she can _breathe_ , but there’s _no time_ for breathing. There’s no time for breathing and he’s diving back in with ‘ _what ifs’_ on his mind and ‘ _I love you’s_ on his tongue as it sweeps against hers.

Her hands are gripping his face as her legs tighten around him with every press of his lips, and it only slightly quells the ache in his chest because this is what he wanted the very first time.

He didn’t know he would get so many chances thereafter. He doesn’t know _why_.

All he knows is this is what he wanted then, and it’s what he wanted in all the other lifetimes, and it’s what he wants _now._

And that he is so, _so_ in love with Ingrid.

His head is yanked back, and Ingrid is breathless when she whispers, “ _Sylvain.”_

Her eyes are closed, her chest heaving against his as she tries to fill her lungs with the air he stole from her. She gulps a few times, her tongue darting out to wet her lips and he is _just_ about to kiss her again when her soft whisper reaches him. “Sylvain, I love you too, but…”

His heart freezes, having already lived through those words once before—Ingrid’s thumbs sweep over his cheeks and she kisses him again. Softly, gently, savoring the feel of his lips on hers, _like she says he deserves_.

She paints him in her warmth with a brush of her nose against his, her unsteady breath washing over him. Her eyes flutter open and pierce straight through him. “Why are you kissing me like this is the last time?”

 _‘Because I love you,’_ gets stuck in his throat.

 _‘Because it might be_ ,’ he wants to say.

“Because I don’t know how to live without you,” is what makes it out of his mouth.

Ingrid’s brow wrinkles, but a tiny smile grows on her face. “I’m right here, Sylvain.”

 _‘But you’re not,’_ he wants to argue.

Instead, he lets his head fall forward to rest against her shoulder, her short blonde hair tickling his cheeks. She’s in his arms and she’s bringing him closer to her chest, closer to her heartbeat. His voice cracks when he whispers, “I’m sorry… I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

She presses a kiss to his hair, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Don't apologize. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

‘ _How can you promise that when you don’t remember?’_ he wants to plead.

 _‘How do I know I’m going to see you again?’_ Sylvain is tired.

 _‘What if this is really the last time?’_ He is _so_ tired.

Her hands cup his face again and he tries searching her eyes once more. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

Sylvain doesn’t fight it when she brushes his hair back from his face. Doesn’t fight it when her lips brush against his with a quiet murmur that goes straight to his heart. “Sylvain, I love you.”

He’ll take what he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _and i'm not done yet_
> 
> the only people i'm sorry for are those stuck in the collateral of the sylvgrid discord  
> my sincerest apologies
> 
> (come yell with us anyway or watch all of us murder each other because apparently thats what we do nowadays: https://discord.gg/mz7pa5z)


	12. making up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if you understand what’s going on, and you’re making up for

Sylvain is a little over two years old when he meets a couple of _babies._

At first, he was excited to go to Fhirdiad. Excited to leave the chilly northern border.

Maybe a little sad because his brother wouldn’t be coming with them. But maybe slightly relieved because he wouldn’t have to worry about covering his arms with long sleeves anymore.

As soon as the Gautier carriage comes to a stop, he bursts out and runs into the sunshine, letting the warmth seep into his skin and feeling the gentle breeze through his hair. He spins around three times and trips on his own feet for the fourth. He tumbles to the ground, knees scraping against the pavement, but he bounces right back up, far too energized to let a few cuts keep him down.

He spots Glenn a few feet away, his jet-black hair tied back into a neat ponytail, his slate gray eyes crinkling at his antics. Sylvain speeds over there before his mother can rein him in. He skids to a stop in front of him and gets a ruffling of his hair in return. His chest feels full and he beams up at the older boy.

_Different from Miklan._

He’s about to ask why Glenn is here too when more carriages arrive and King Lambert steps out to greet them, a tiny blue bundle wrapped in his arms. Glenn’s father follows close behind, a similarly sized teal bundle in his arms as well.

Sylvain’s racing heart stills for just a moment.

He hears more hooves on stone approach and he turns to the just-arriving party, their banners flying with a crest he doesn’t recognize. Several footsteps draw nearer, and Sylvain straightens before bowing low, just as Glenn does.

He gets another gentle hand on his head and he rises from the bow, his chest warming again. He looks up, now staring into two pairs of wide eyes, clear blue and deep amber. Glenn’s hand settles on his shoulder and nods toward the teal blanket. “Sylvain, meet my little brother, Felix.”

He inhales deeply, watching the baby’s face crinkle in the sunlight. He slowly reaches out and pokes his cheek. Felix’s face scrunches into a light scowl before turning his head toward his finger. Glenn snorts when Sylvain quickly withdraws his hand. “He hasn’t even been alive that long and he’s already a grouch.”

Rodrigue sighs, but a smile grows on his face regardless. “ _Glenn._ Be nice to your brother.”

Those amber eyes open again, and he _definitely_ looks annoyed. Sylvain smiles as Glenn unabashedly squeezes his brother’s cheeks.

He turns to the other blue bundle when King Lambert’s voice, low and affectionate, rumbles from above. “Sylvain, meet my son, Dimitri.”

He holds the small wiggling baby out toward him, and Sylvain feels a deep tugging in his chest. There are wisps of blond hair on his head, his blue eyes as clear as the sky, cherub face as round as ever. He stares at him in wonder, almost too afraid to touch him. He hears the King chuckle and he gets another pat on the head as Dimitri is brought back to his father’s chest. “Be a good friend to him, would you Sylvain?”

He gulps and nods vigorously. No way he would disappoint the King.

Then, another pair of blond heads approach, a mint bundle cradled in their arms.

Sylvain feels time slow.

Glenn shifts next to him, but his eyes are locked onto the squirming blankets, a tuft of blonde hair peeking out. His ears are buzzing, but he just barely hears Rodrigue address the newcomers. “Count Galatea, nice to see you again.”

“Likewise, Duke Fraldarius.”

_Galatea._

“And this little one is Ingrid? Full of energy I see.”

A deep chuckle. “Indeed. I’m not surprised, considering how much she eats. Her mother is exhausted. Felix is growing quite well too, isn’t he?”

“He is. Already picking up his older brother’s disposition. Glenn?”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes once more before it falls away and Sylvain watches Glenn step forward, bowing slightly. “Count Galatea.”

He feels oddly out of place as the older man turns his attention to the older Fraldarius. His eyes briefly meet Sylvain’s before refocusing on the boy before him. “Glenn. Nice to see you doing well.”

“Likewise, sir.”

Sylvain’s blood pulses beneath his skin, nothing like when he first stepped off the carriage. His chest feels tight and he doesn’t think he’s breathing quite right.

“Would you like to hold her?”

He snaps back to attention as Glenn holds out his arms, accepting the mint bundle and bringing it closer to his chest. The baby’s eyes open and it sends a pang through him that he ends up taking a step back.

Glenn readjusts his hold on her, and she coos, a bubbly little gurgle. Glenn smiles.

Then, those wide eyes find his. A glittering green that sends his head spinning.

She reaches out for him.

* * *

Sylvain is eight years old when the rest of his memories slam into him.

He’s in Galatea territory, watching his friends play in the sun, their wooden swords clunking together with each drill Glenn leads them through. His arms are littered with scars and fresh bruises before he made it down here. His long sleeves were fine as he left Gautier, the summer still cool enough to tolerate additional layers.

But even just a little further south, the heat started to bake into his covered skin and his vision goes a little blurry. So, he took shelter under the shade of the large swaying oak tree, leaning heavily against its old bark.

He’d just been pulling at the collar of his shirt, fanning his face in an attempt to generate more air when the smell of roses hit him.

Then, citrus and orange blossoms.

Then, several noises start flooding his ears at once.

_The deafening blow of victory horns._

_Rapid footsteps heading in his direction._

_The clang of armor and gentle whispers._

_Soft cooing and exasperated laughs._

_A mechanical grinding of coffee beans and hissing steam._

_Echoing shoes on vinyl flooring._

_Laughing children and a stuttering murmur._

_The quiet snipping of garden shears._

_Running water and sweet nothings on his skin._

_Slamming doors and bated breaths, his blood pounding in his ears._

_More gentle whispers, more exasperated laughs._

_More shaky breaths._

_A declaration of love._

_Sylvain, I love you—_

His eyes fly open with a strangled gasp, but he squeezes them tightly immediately, the sharp summer rays blinding him as he clutches his throbbing head. He hears a cacophony of voices call out to him, but it’s distant and his world is spinning, and his chest is _aching—_

He passes out under the sweltering sun.

The next time he opens his eyes, he’s laying down in a dark room, cool towel on his forehead, small fingers tangled with his.

He turns his head and spots a head of blonde hair resting next to him, her back rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

His heart calms and he closes his eyes once more.

* * *

Sylvain is fifteen when his heart breaks with a kind of pain that isn’t his own.

News travels slow to the North. They’re always guarding the border.

They’re always under attack.

The letter arrives several days late.

Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe they’ve been too busy with Miklan being disinherited. Sylvain’s got a crop of new bruises on his back and arms to prove it.

He opens the discarded letter on his father’s desk, and he balks.

The King and Queen have fallen.

The entire Kingdom troops deployed to Duscur, decimated.

Including Glenn.

Only Dimitri and a young Duscur boy remain.

He stops by a desolate Fraldarius castle first.

Felix is alone.

Sylvain stays a week.

He skips the capital for now. There’s too much happening in Fhirdiad.

From the rumors he hears circulating on his travels further South…

He’ll stop by on his way back up to Gautier.

He arrives in Galatea with little fanfare and chilled to the bone.

The lands are more barren than he remembers.

He mutters a brief greeting to Count Galatea and silently walks the halls to the room his heart tugs him toward.

Everyone has left her alone.

No one has tried coaxing her out.

_What are we supposed to do?_

_Get through it. Together._

He knocks on her door, not expecting an answer.

It swings open immediately and Ingrid comes crashing into his arms.

_It feels like I’ve loved you since forever._

* * *

Sylvain is nineteen when he enters the Officer’s Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery alongside his friends.

He sees Dimitri greeting several new faces to the Blue Lions house. He sees Felix stalking off to what he can only assume is the direction of the armory.

He sees a swinging golden braid and his feet are running before his mind catches up.

He catches Ingrid by the shoulders and swings her around when she stumbles under his weight. The smell of citrus and orange blossoms fill his senses once more. “Sylvain!”

He beams, his blood thrumming at the sight of her, well-rested, the light back in her green eyes as she mockingly glares at him. “Excited to see me?”

She scoffs. “In your dreams.”

He half expects her to shrug him off.

She doesn’t.

The smile on his face grows even wider.

* * *

Sylvain is twenty and it feels like they celebrated Ingrid’s birthday just yesterday when they watch Dimitri break in the Holy Mausoleum.

His childhood friend’s laughter, crazed, _broken_ laughter rings in his ears in the days that follow. He hears nonsensical mumbling and pacing through their shared wall.

Sylvain is twenty when he knocks on Ingrid’s door once more.

It swings open and he crashes into her arms.

Her hands weave through his hair and the ringing in his ears quiet.

* * *

The Professor has fallen and Sylvain watches Garreg Mach Monastery crumble before them.

He’s lived this life before, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

An arm swings around his neck and a pair of lips crash into his.

Sylvain’s heart knows her before his eyes see her.

His hands grapple for her waist and her hands shift to cup his face. Like she remembers.

Like she understands what’s going on, and she’s making up for the times that they’ve lost.

Her lips are desperate against his, her breath hot in his mouth as the salty taste of their tears hits his tongue. He doesn’t want to let go. He doesn’t want to open his eyes and re-live the chaos he remembers but still remained powerless to stop.

He doesn’t want to leave her.

Her lips are desperate against his and they finally break away, foreheads knocking almost immediately after.

Wanting to be close.

 _Needing_ to be close.

Sylvain finally opens his eyes again and Ingrid’s eyes are boring into his.

They look as old as his do.

The words are stuck in his throat. _Why are you kissing me like this is the last time?_

Ingrid’s lips move before his do, her words echoing with the memory of their past life. “Stay alive.”

_You’ll find a way._

He smiles weakly back. “Only for you.”

_Only for you._

She pulls him down to kiss him one more time, slower. Gentler.

Like it’s not the last time.

Then they separate.

* * *

Sylvain is twenty-six when Ingrid catches him by the neck and kisses him again, victory horns sounding in their ears.

That ancient box in his heart remains shut as he feels her smile into his mouth.

_I’ve loved you since the very first time._

* * *

Ingrid is twenty-five when she cups Sylvain’s face to bring him closer, her lips meeting his as his arms wind around her waist, his warmth bleeding into her chest.

The silver wedding band on her finger glints under the summer sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cont ch 11: i'm _so_ mad at all of you


	13. one of us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> all the lifetimes in which one of us doesn’t exist

Ingrid is maybe half a year old, swaddled in a mint-green blanket, cradled in the arms of her parents. She doesn’t really recognize anything, but she _is_ enamored with the way colors swirl around her as she’s carried place to place.

She is _especially_ enamored with a shock of red and golden brown.

Something tickles the palm of her hand and she automatically clamps her fingers down on it. She hears a loud burst of excitement almost immediately after.

She doesn’t know what it means.

But it’s warm.

Her grip tightens to keep it close.

* * *

Ingrid is just shy of two years old when her parents sweep her up into a carriage to take her with them on a week-long trip to Fhirdiad.

This is where she meets three boys.

She meets Dimitri, the crown prince, with his bright blue eyes and tufts of blond hair much like her own. She meets Felix, the second Fraldarius son with jet-black hair and piercing amber eyes. She also meets Glenn, the elder Fraldarius son with matching black hair and soft slate gray eyes. Her heart thumps once and she looks around the sprawling courtyard.

Her parents are standing a few feet away with the others, low unintelligible chatter that she doesn’t care for.

She keeps looking.

And looking.

She doesn’t meet anyone else.

She’s not even two and she _feels_ like she should’ve met someone else.

Someone is missing.

She doesn’t know who.

* * *

Ingrid is just under ten years old when her father announces her betrothal to Glenn.

Their union and merge with House Fraldarius through marriage would restore the Galatea lands.

Her heart feels oddly complete, like everything is as it’s supposed to be. But it doesn’t explain the gaping hole in her chest she’s felt since the very first time she was in Fhirdiad.

She wears a pristine white dress that flutters about her knees to breakfast the next day and she smiles prettily at Glenn when he greets her _‘good morning’_.

By noon, she is out in the gardens by the roses, determined to learn how to weave the flowers together in time for the Garland Moon, to give to her new fiancé. She’s able to gather a sizeable pile of white roses next to her by the end of the day, but their thorns leave stinging cuts on her fingers and knuckles.

She sticks a bleeding finger into her mouth and its coppery taste coats her tongue while her blood continues to thrum underneath her skin.

Ingrid looks at the scratches on her hands and frowns. She can always weave tomorrow.

She tells herself it’s a trick of the lighting and she didn’t get pink stains all over her skirts.

* * *

Ingrid just barely turned thirteen when her heart splinters even further.

Glenn dies in Duscur along with Dimitri’s parents and the Kingdom troops that went with them.

She locks herself in her room, grieving separately from Dimitri. Separately from Felix. Her mourning is saturated with loss, and the most _confusing_ sense of relief.

She spends an entire week locked in her room, trying to figure out what it all means. Everyone leaves her alone. No one tries to coax her out.

No one comes knocking on her door.

* * *

Ingrid is fifteen years old when she finds out who she didn’t meet.

She is fifteen when she finds out who was missing in Fhirdiad.

Ingrid is fifteen years old when she finds out why her heart never quite beat correctly.

She finds the discarded letter in her father’s study. She’d entered his office with a proposal to enter the Officer’s Academy in two years. To go to Garreg Mach Monastery for training alongside his Highness and Felix.

She’d just barely raised her hand to knock on the door when it swings open, her father storming out, his voice a low growl, “that _fool—_ ”

He’s already breezed past her, but Ingrid’s heart is pounding. Her feet bring her into the room and she’s _moving_. Moving closer to her father’s desk and her hands are shaking when she picks up the letter. Her head is throbbing, breaths coming short, and her vision narrows to the thin black script on weathered parchment.

News travels slow in Faerghus, especially from up North. They’re always guarding the border.

They’re always under attack.

Nevertheless, the letter comes years too late.

Maybe they were too busy with defenses. Maybe they were just trying to hide the shame that comes with disinheriting a child.

She is fifteen years old when her heart twists so violently in her chest, she almost collapses on the spot.

Gautier had a second son because his first didn’t bear a crest.

He never made it to the age of four.

The only drinking well on the territory has been permanently destroyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _S O M A D!!!!!_


	14. barely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and the ones where we just, barely, never meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Once in a while when I wake up,  
>  I find myself crying._
> 
> _The dream I must have had,  
>  I can never recall._
> 
> _But..._  
>  The sensation I've lost something, lingers for a long time after I wake up.
> 
> _I'm always searching for something, for someone._
> 
> a [kimi no na wa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_iQqN1Hp74s) au

Sylvain wakes with a jolt, hair mussed, eyes wet.

He had that dream again. The one that’s a jumbled mess of yellow, white, and green. Flashes of brown, flashes of pink. Never, ever, a single face he can remember.

All he remembers is being filled with a warmth that is painstakingly absent when he wakes up. He’s tried looking for reminders, tried searching for something to jog his memory.

He’s gone to the park and sat in front of a large swaying tree. He felt a slight tingle in his fingertips before that too faded. He’s stopped more than once outside a floral shop, staring at white rose arrangements, feeling like they should mean something more to him. He’s even tied an old green ribbon around his wrist.

He doesn't know where he got it from, but it holds steady against his pulse and it’s soft against his skin. It feels like a reminder, for something he should remember.

But even with all of that, he’s still empty. So, he keeps looking, keeps searching. For something. For someone.

 _Anything_ to fill that gaping hole that sits right in his core.

To this day, he’s found nothing.

Sylvain rolls his head to look for the time and throws an arm over his eyes with a groan. _Five in the morning_. He still has another two hours before he has to get up for work.

But the sun is rising, and his legs swing out of bed against his will. It’s daybreak and Sylvain has always followed his heart’s tugging to the rooftop of his apartment complex where he stares listlessly at the horizon, quiet words ringing in his ears.

_There’s always tomorrow. The sun always rises, and there’s always the start of something new._

He doesn’t know who says it.

He can’t even really recall ever hearing a voice like that before.

But his chest aches and aches, and maybe… Maybe he gets out of bed at five in the morning just so he can hear the voice again.

Sylvain watches the sun rise and watches the sky lighten along with it. His eyes track along wispy clouds, searching. There’s nothing there.

His phone’s alarm goes off and he feels so incredibly empty. Another sunrise, another day spent at a job he hates in a city he has no love for.

_There’s always tomorrow._

He wishes tomorrow would come sooner.

* * *

It’s five in the morning and Sylvain’s eyes snap open, his heart racing and his blood pounding in his ears, his mouth forming silently around the words from his dreams.

_I’m right here, Sylvain._

_I love you._

He races to the rooftop for the sunrise.

It’s cloudy.

His eyes sting with unshed tears as the wind whips his face, his whispers lost to the wind. “Who are you?”

* * *

Sylvain did it. He finally did it.

He turned in his resignation form to his father and turned on his heel without looking back. No snark, no fuss.

A bow of his head and a clean turnabout.

Now he’s back in his apartment, his only belongings packed up in two suitcases and a one-way ticket out of this damn city.

He didn’t pay attention to which ticket he bought.

He bought the earliest one out.

He is leaving first thing tomorrow morning.

Sylvain spends his last night in the city out on the rooftop alone, watching the stars until daybreak. He brushes a thumb over the green on his wrist.

The sun peaks over the horizon and he takes a deep breath.

_Maybe he can finally start searching for that something. The start of something new._

* * *

Sylvain drops into his seat and lets his head rest against the window. He hadn’t meant to stay up all night, but his head had been clear, and the air was fresh.

There was no voice ringing in his ears.

_He kind of wished there was._

He automatically shifts when another passenger sits across from him. His breath catches in his chest.

_Yellow._

He blinks and the moment passes. The other man gives him a strange look before pulling out his laptop to continue working, his blond hair catching the morning sun’s light in a way that dries his throat.

He quickly settles deeper into his seat and looks back out the window. A woman passes by in a hurry, her white dress fluttering at her knees. His heart skips a beat, his eyes trail after her until he can’t see her anymore.

His stomach flips uncomfortably and he lets his eyes slide shut.

_Maybe searching isn’t such a good idea after all._

Sylvain concentrates on taking a few deep, even breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. This is the first time in a long time since he’s woken up without a cold sweat, tears leaking out of his eyes as he fights to catch his breath.

 _Sure_ , maybe it’s because he didn’t sleep at all…

But something’s different.

Something is different and he’s almost certain it’s because he’s leaving.

The glass pane he’s resting on begins to rumble and his eyes open. Another train just pulled into the station and its engine hisses as it comes to a complete stop.

He feels his heart stop with it.

He sees her.

Her blonde hair, mint coat, gentle green eyes that lock with his across the platform.

Her lips part as his do, his whisper barely even reaching his own ears. “It’s you.”

The train jolts and Sylvain jumps out of his seat. He’s striding toward the nearest door, his mind a complete blur because he doesn’t know what he’s doing. The train is _moving_ and he doesn’t know what he’s doing but his heart keeps tugging him to _her._

That woman standing out there on the platform, with her braided hair and longing expression that just _tells him it’s her, it’s her, it’s her._

He’s racing toward the end of the car, the one where he knows there’s a door he can step out of, but the train is moving and it’s moving _faster_ , and he’s not moving fast enough.

His hands wrench the end-car door open and the wind lashes against his hair and coat, his eyes tearing at the sudden onslaught.

The other train is pulling out of the station in the opposite direction.

There’s no one left on the platform.

That voice. _Her_ voice, rings in his head one more time.

_I’m not going anywhere, I promise._


	15. I'd Prefer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate those. I prefer the ones in which you kill me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ok but foreal jul you gifting me a fricken CF murder fic? this one is for u)

If Sylvain were pressed to pinpoint when he began to lose his best friend, he’d say it was probably after _that_ proposal.

The one that led her away from her childhood friends, the one that _Dorothea_ of all people, saved her from.

He knew from the previous lifetimes he couldn’t ever change the course of history. Not on his own. He had to let it play out. He _knew_ about the merchant and he _knew_ about the proposal. He knew Dorothea and Ingrid didn’t grow close until after that whole ordeal…

_But still._

Maybe he was hoping she would tell him this time. Maybe he was hoping this would be one of the lifetimes where she also remembers.

Because sometimes she does.

Sometimes, she doesn’t.

He was hoping for something different. And he gets what he wishes for. It plays out just like the first time, but _worse._

This time, Ingrid doesn’t come back to the class reunion like he’d hoped.

This time, she’s the one circling the sky above him, flying with the colors of blood and death.

The wind whips past his face and he cranes his neck. There’s no sun today. It’s gray cloud cover mixed with the smoke and ashes of the fallen, but Sylvain squints up at the sky where he _knows_ Ingrid recognizes him by the shock of his red hair.

A red different from the banner she marches under.

He squints because it had never been the sun that blinds him to the sky. It’d always been her. It’s always been her he chases after, because she is so wholly ingrained, _imprinted_ , upon his soul, he will always find his way back to her.

Even if it kills him.

And despite how his heart splinters in his chest at the thought of being on two separate sides of war, that he would have to _fight_ her… he can’t help but revel in the warmth that fills him at seeing her alive in front of him.

Because at least, they got to meet. They still got to grow up together.

At least, they both exist.

And even if he’s laid to rest here, by her hand, he prefers it over the ones where they never got to be together. Not as kids, not as adults. Not as friends, not as lovers.

 _Anything_ is better than nothing at all.

He’ll take what he can get.

Ingrid circles once more in the sky with her battalion and he watches her descend, the other pegasus knights hovering just out of reach of the Kingdom’s ballistas. Ingrid descends and Sylvain’s heart lifts, even as his grip tightens reflexively on the Lance of Ruin.

She lands five feet away, blood on her face and suddenly, it feels just like the first time.

Except, there are no victory horns, there’s no light in her eyes, and there’s certainly no running crash into his arms with grateful whispers of _‘you’re alive’_.

But what continues to remain the same, through their lifetimes together and apart, is the way _‘I love you’_ threatens to spill from his lips whenever she’s within reach.

Ingrid dismounts and Sylvain is compelled to do the same. His gaze flickers from her stormy green eyes to the way she grips Luín, knuckles white, fingers bloodied. If they were meeting again under different circumstances, maybe he would’ve teased her, for the slight tremble of her hands as they move closer to each other.

_Excited to see me?_

_In your dreams._

His eyes are drawn back to hers and they pierce through him, like they always do. He’ll never get tired of how beautiful she is. He’ll never get tired of how she keeps his heart beating.

But this is war, and he’s _tired_ of how they’ve been driven apart and how he’s done nothing to bridge the gap between them. How he _can’t_ do anything about the gap between them.

He stops when she does, both of their weapons pulsing with the crests that run in their blood. The same crests that tie them to this forsaken war. His throat is dry as he searches for his voice. He hates crests and he hates this war. He’d love nothing more than to cast this _damned_ relic away and burn the blood off his hands, but he _can’t._

He can’t.

Not when the other Blue Lions are here, the last remaining people in his life that he would even dare call family.

Dedue, with his patience and his ability to speak with pretense, letting him drop his mask and speak freely. Ashe, with his wide eyes and earnest motivation to do right by others, keeping him out of trouble, or at least hiding him from trouble when there’s trouble to be had. Annette, with her bubbly voice and tenacity to work harder, pushing himself to do better, that maybe expectations aren’t as bad as he makes them out to be. Mercedes, with her gentle smile and healing hands, showing him the kind of love he sought after in Miklan.

Dimitri, currently a shadow of his former self, with haunted eyes and a growling snarl. All the more reason he can’t leave him behind.

Felix, with his prickly words and begrudgingly outstretched hand, their childhood promise still ringing true.

Ingrid, with her steadfast stance and his heart in her pocket, their previous lifetimes together ringing in his mind.

He hates crests and he hates this war. But he can’t stop fighting because with all of him that loves Ingrid, he also loves the family that loves him back.

Ingrid is five paces in front of him and his words come out stronger than he feels. “Stand down, Ingrid. I know you don’t want to die here.”

Her voice cuts through the air and into him. “I will not. I won’t ally myself with you.”

His entire body aches with the desire to hold her, but he stays put and smiles. “Heh, stubborn as ever.” He sees the way Luín shifts and his resolve slips, _just_ a bit, as his voice lowers to a murmur. “I always did like that about you, y’know?”

He hopes his eyes are bright enough for the both of them, to tell her that he’s still here, he’s still alive, and _he still loves her_.

With the way fondness, exasperation, and a deep, profound longing flashes in that familiar green, Sylvain isn’t sure if she _knows_ , that she recognizes him beyond this lifetime. That she’s loved him before this time.

He isn’t sure which he prefers. If he’d rather her remember… or if he’d rather her forget and kill him until they meet again.

Ingrid bites her lip and _goddess_ he wants to kiss her. He wants to stride over to her and throw caution to the wind. Throw it all away, just to have her in his arms again so he can smell the orange blossoms in her hair and feel her heartbeat against his.

The empire colors in his periphery remind him of his station, but Ingrid reminds him of his home, especially with the way her mouth flattens and her eyebrow knits. “It’s funny, isn’t it? To think the last person you’ll get to try flirting with is me.”

 _‘It’s not. I wanted it to be you. I needed it to be you’_ gets stuck behind his teeth and the cruel part of him wakes. To make it hurt less by making it hurt more. Make her hate him. Because it’s easier to kill someone you hate, even if you loved them once before.

 _He would know_.

He feels his tried and true smirk climb onto his face. _He hates how easy it is._ “And here I thought we were supposed to get through this. Together.”

Her eyes flicker with recognition before it’s replaced with hardened steel. His pounding heart settles with the final set of her shoulders.

 _It’s better this way,_ he thinks, as he watches her lance spin in her hands with practiced ease, coming to a point directed at his heart.

 _It’s easier this way,_ he thinks, as he watches her close herself off to him. Her voice is cold when it reaches his ears. “We haven’t been together in a long time, Sylvain. And I don’t intend to start now.”

And even though he’s the one who started it, the one who instigated it, her words run him through.

Just like Luín does.

The edges of his vision go blurry, but Ingrid is closer to him than she ever has been during this lifetime. The blood on her face is both fresh and old. _Some of it, probably his._ Her skin is pale and sallow, her eyes glittering with the tears she refuses to let fall.

But they’re open.

Ingrid is back, open to him, and Sylvain feels his heart shatter all over again. She wasn’t supposed to be open again. _She wasn’t supposed to remember_. “Ingrid…”

He was never meant to fight her and win. He would always choose her life over his. Because she’s always had dreams, all he ever had was her.

And if she gets to live, that’s enough for him.

He tries bringing a hand up, but all he succeeds in doing is crashing to his knees, slumping forward into her. Her hands leave Luín from where it’s buried into his abdomen and clutch at his face. Her eyes are searching his, as if she didn’t run him through and as if he wasn’t bleeding out right in front of her.

But right now, it’s just them. Just her and him and he smiles, his voice barely a whisper. “I still love you.”

Her lips part and her eyes widen. “Sylvain, I…”

He coughs, shifting Luín just a tad to the left, and he winces. Ingrid’s hands leave him for a fraction of a second to tear off her gauntlets. Then, her warmth is back, her thumbs brushing against his cheeks like every time before. He’s fairly certain she’s staining her bare hands with his blood, painting it across his face like the blush he used to tease her about. He tries smiling again. For her. “I’ve always loved you, since the very first time. Remember?”

She doesn’t smile back. Her fingers twist into his hair, but he can barely feel it. His eyes are watering and she blurs in front of him, his voice rasping, “I’m sorry we didn’t happen.”

Sylvain feels his lungs rattle and his eyelids flicker as they get heavier and heavier. With his last bit of strength, he catches one of her hands and laces their bloody fingers together. “I’ll find you again. I promise.”

Because his love for her is old. His love for her is _ancient_. He’ll always be searching for her in each and every lifetime. He’ll always chase after her, because even if this lifetime is too painful, even if he can’t stay with her in this time, there’s always the next.

They can start anew. They can _happen_.

Her tears finally fall as his grip loosens and his head lolls to the side, supported only by her shaking hands. His eyes are closed, and his chest is still.

Ingrid presses a soft kiss to his forehead and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

She squeezes his fingers tighter. “ _I’m sorry_.”

_Please find me again._

_I love you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have been at my wits end for the past week and i needed to post something to emotionally un-constipate myself
> 
> i'm sorry it couldn't have been happier, but _i promise there's something better for the next chapter_
> 
> ...whenever that is :')
> 
> LOVE YALL ANYWAY AND THANK YOU FOR MAKING IT THIS FAR WITH ME <3 10 MORE LINES, 10 MORE CHAPTERS!!


	16. surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But when all’s said and done, I’d surrender to you in other ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the man from uncle [scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5I7HrnRA7gc&ab_channel=ilawcoffee) haunts me to this day but i ain’t complaining 😌

Ingrid spots his red hair across the room first. It’s the first training session for the new recruits at the agency, and they’ve only just begun to pair off to start sparring. He catches her eye with a quirk of his brow, and it sends a jolt through her heart.

The trainees file away from her, leaving him standing before her, a strangely soft smile on his face.

She ignores the tingling on her skin and the tugging in her chest as she shifts into her starting stance, training staff in hand. A glint in his brown eyes tells her he’s not going down easy, despite his loose posture and grip.

Several whacks, two less staffs, and one six foot giant beneath her, Ingrid learns _his_ name and learns the feel of his skin beneath her hands. Ingrid flies off him, cheeks burning. She gives him a stiff bow and hurries off to her quarters, blood pounding in her ears.

His name curls around her tongue and she drifts to sleep desperately trying to forget the warmth of his chest as she leaned over him.

That night, she dreams of silver rings.

That night, Ingrid dreams of Sylvain Jose Gautier.

* * *

As his luck would have it, Sylvain found Ingrid again. They were in the same cohort of new recruits at the agency.

As _his luck would have it_ , he doesn’t think she remembers.

She locked eyes with him across the room and his heart jumped into his throat. He couldn’t help the smile that grew on his face, taking in her short blonde hair and green eyes. His smile grew even wider as she slid into stance without preamble.

_Some things never do change._

Just as she made quick work of him during sparring, like she always had, Ingrid stands in front of him, fidgeting uncomfortably as the instructor places one of her hands onto his shoulder, the other in his left hand, and all but pushed them closer together.

If she remembered, he would’ve teased her about the pink in her cheeks, and how it would’ve looked great in her hair.

If she remembered, he would’ve kissed her already.

Instead, he inhales the scent of orange blossoms and settles his right hand high on her waist, trying to ignore the twisting of his stomach as she tenses under his touch. The music starts around them, but it’s like Ingrid can’t hear a single note, with how stiffly and out of time she moves with him, refusing to look at his face.

After the fifth mishap to his toes, her blush has reached her ears and Sylvain picks up on her low mutter, “When will dancing ever be more useful than sparring…”

He snorts and she finally looks at him, green eyes indignant. “What?”

Taking his chances, Sylvain squeezes her hand lightly and relishes the way her cheeks darken further as he smiles teasingly. “So, you don’t want to dance, but you do want to wrestle?”

Her eyes widen as her lips part, and it’s like he can just _see_ her remembering the way she pinned him on day one. He laughs as Ingrid tightens her grip on his shoulders, huffing sharply. “That is _not_ what I said.”

The music ends and she drops his hand, turning on her heel away from him.

That night, Sylvain lies awake with Ingrid Brandl Galatea on his mind and _‘I love you’s_ on the tip of his tongue.

* * *

Five years ago, Ingrid would’ve balked at the assignment.

The Knights have sent them on lower profile cases, duo scouting missions, solo infiltration with backline support and extraction team at the ready, but none of these missions lasted over a month.

She marches across the hall and knocked on the door sharply. It swings open and Ingrid averts her eyes quickly. Sylvain stands in the doorway, wrinkled shirt haphazardly thrown on, hair messier than ever, one hand covering his mouth as he yawns widely. He blinks blearily at her, voice cracking with sleep. “Ingrid? Need something?”

Ingrid shoves the notice into his hands and fumbles with the ties of her hoodie. _They’ve gone on missions before._ They’ve done tag-team reconnaissance jobs, paired undercover plots, even sting operations if the agency thought it necessary.

As part of the same cohort, they’ve inadvertently been paired together more often than not. Sparring, weapons training, even… even dancing. And as much as she would hate to admit it to his _stupid_ stupid soft smiling face and his bright eyes whenever he notices her—

Sylvain often feels like an extension of herself.

She felt that strange tug during their first spar, when he ended up beneath her with absolutely no surprise on his face. Their subsequent training drills, he flowed easily around her, watching her back with ease as she shifts to cover his blind spots.

And then during their mandatory dance lessons, with the warmth of his hand at her waist and the heat of his palm against hers… Ingrid felt like her heart was going to beat out of her chest. She ended up stepping on his toes at least five different times, trying to fight the urge to bring his face down to hers and—

“Three month long infiltration?”

A blush rises to her cheeks. “Yes.”

Sylvain’s brow creases and he tilts his head. “Did you want to debrief or something? We’re not supposed to report until—”

Ingrid scans the hallway quickly and then promptly pushes Sylvain back into his room, shutting the door behind them.

His eyes are wide, but his mouth thankfully remains shut as Ingrid tries to sort out her thoughts. She wets her lips and misses the way Sylvain’s fists clench at his sides. “Did you read the mission details?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Sylvain shrugs. “…And?”

 _He’s frustratingly calm about this._ Ingrid wrings her hands and rests her back against his door. “It’s… we have to—”

“Ing, do you trust me?”

She inhales sharply and meets his gaze, his eyes searching hers for something she feels like she should know. She gulps and straightens. “With my life.”

A smile lights up his face and Ingrid’s breath catches in her chest as he holds out a hand. Her feet bring her forward and her hand lifts, his fingers filling the empty spaces between hers. “I… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

He squeezes her hand, voice low, “we’ll get through it. Together.”

She lets herself stay, lets herself be folded into his arms as she takes a shuddering breath. She feels warm.

She feels safe. “Okay.”

When Ingrid returns to her room to turn in for the night, she feels lighter, but her heart feels heavier.

She dreams of fingers dancing along her skin and the smell of roses.

* * *

Sylvain read the notice already. He’s read the notice several hundred times already.

He’s thankful, but he also thinks it’s oddly cruel.

Oddly cruel of this lifetime to send him out on missions that vaguely resemble the previous lifetimes he’s had with Ingrid.

The first one was obscure enough, setting up a stake-out in a coffee shop. Their mark frequented the store enough that they could start establishing movement patterns. It hadn’t even registered to him until he heard Ingrid’s disgruntled groan come from the bathroom. Still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he’d stumbled over to her. “Something wrong, Ing?”

“You tell me.”

He blinked in the mirror and felt his heart stop. Ingrid was staring at her own reflection with annoyance clear as day on her face, her eyes flickering over to him as he tried to remember how to breathe. Clearing his throat quickly, his voice came out scratchy. “I don’t know, I think the pink is pretty cute.”

Ingrid blew the wig’s fringe out of her eyes and huffed, “the rest of the wigs were normal colors. I thought the point was to _blend in_.”

And despite the pink wig, the reconnaissance had thankfully gone without a hitch.

Then, they were sent as undercover students, to protect the crown prince of Faerghus. Or at least, to prevent outside dangers from reaching him with minimal interaction.

Then, there was the greenhouse. The rooftop. Even the tree.

Sylvain was at the end of his wits, because even with all of that, Ingrid remained without her memories. And like in all other lifetimes, Ingrid is his friend and she trusts him. She trusts him and _goddess_ he’s not going to ruin that trust no matter how desperate he is for her to remember.

And now?

Now, their new mission required them to pose as newlyweds, vacationing in the more temperate weather of Adrestia.

He wonders what will end him first: the heat, or pretending to be Ingrid’s husband?

* * *

Sylvain’s hands are warm on her back and her feet are starting to cramp after a night of dancing in heels. They’d been dropped in the field earlier in the week, the agency renting out a room in the hotel frequented by the royal advisors.

The Knights received intelligence from operatives on the ground regarding suspicious movement in the slums of Adrestia. High ranking officials in the Empire would go missing for days on end, only to return with erratic behavior and radical changes to their political stance.

They were to observe one of such abductions, tail the assailants, and stay on standby for possible infiltration orders.

Standard protocol, nothing out of the ordinary for them.

Sylvain schmoozed their way into their summer festival after striking up a conversation with the niece of the host over breakfast. Acid rose in her throat as she watched the other woman’s hand trail up his arm, but she kept a demure smile as Sylvain casually twisted the silver ring on his finger and easily redirected his attention to her, smiling brightly as he started spewing sickly sweet plans for their “first night out”.

Like a husband would with his new wife.

But now, Sylvain’s shoes and her heels click against the cobblestone as they hurry away from the event, plain-dressed guards at an inconspicuous distance behind them. The skirts of her dress fly behind her as Sylvain’s freshly pressed suit jacket gain more wrinkles, their eyes darting through the vaguely familiar streets they studied the night before, looking for any advantageous alleyway to lose their tail.

Ingrid wasn’t sure what set them off. She’d been on the dance floor with Sylvain, chest pressed up to his with her arms hanging loosely around his neck. _“It’d be a good way to survey the entire room”_ , he’d said. So, she went with it.

And he was right.

But she _also_ couldn’t ignore the way his breath washed against the skin of her neck as they traversed the floor, just barely brushing past other couples following Sylvain’s lead.

The only indication she got that something went wrong was the sudden change of his grip on her hip. His fingers skated across her bare back as he redirected her to the nearest exit, his voice a low murmur in her ear, “pink cornflower. Our eight o’clock.” _Cornelia Arnim._

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She gulped quietly as she could as they left the main hall, breathing in the night air while her racing mind caught up. _What is the royal advisor of Faerghus doing here? There wasn’t any scheduled event—_

Her hair prickles again and she’s acutely aware of the two shadows that reappeared behind them. Sylvain tenses beside her and lets a rare curse slip from his lips. Her eyes scan their surroundings again, then, she yanks Sylvain on the next turn. “We can’t lead them back to the hotel.”

His lips thin and he cranes his neck to look behind them, and Ingrid’s mouth dries.

The two of them have encountered unforeseen factors on their missions before, but she’d never been distracted like this.

Never been distracted by the column of his throat and how he smiles at her when he thinks she isn’t looking.

How it doesn’t feel like he’s pretending.

They both hear far-too-casual footsteps approaching and his eyes flicker back to hers. Suddenly, Sylvain crowds her against the wall, voice low. “Trust me?”

Ingrid barely manages a nod when his head ducks into her neck, his nose gliding along the line of her jaw. Heat pools in her belly and her face flushes as his hands trail up her sides, one gripping the fabric of her dress at her hip, the other settling on her ribcage.

Her breaths are coming short and his curt whispers come out as hot puffs on her skin. “Turn your head into my hair, wrap your hands around my neck or back.”

She shakily follows his orders, legs trembling as he steps even closer to support her against the cool brick. The footsteps pause just beyond the corner.

Sylvain’s breath washes over her as he breathes as evenly as possible. Ingrid’s fingers tighten in his shirt as his lips brush against her ear. “We’re newlyweds, just a little longer to fake them out, Ing.”

And a little while passes, their quiet breathing and blood pounding in their ears, their tails staying just out of sight, but unmoving from their position.

Ingrid shifts in his grip and runs a hand through his hair, whispering into his skin, “they aren’t leaving, Sylvain.”

She can feel him grimace and she inhales sharply through her nose when he rests his cheek against hers. “I know. Damn bastards want a show. Any ideas?”

The moonlight casts shadows over the planes of his face and Ingrid finds herself lost in his gaze, golden eyes gleaming with complete trust in her.

Trust that she’ll think of something to get them out of this.

One of her hands falls from his hair to cup his cheek, her blood thrumming beneath her skin as his eyes flutter shut, his face nestling closer to her touch. There’s a buzzing in her ears and she _swears_ she’s been here before. Done this with him before. Her thumb brushes absently against his skin and Sylvain opens his eyes again.

Ingrid feels the wind get knocked out of her. His brow furrows with her silence. “Ingrid—?”

She sees him.

She sees him and she thinks she hears movement from their tails, but she _sees him._

Sylvain has been right in front of her this entire time and she tugs his head forward, lips meeting his as a flurry of memories slam into her.

She remembers the very first time.

The way his voice trembled as he held her in her arms after the war. The way she could see his heart break as her own empty words left her lips, when she couldn’t give him a promise she couldn’t honor. She wasn’t lying. She did love him.

She _does_ love him.

 _Still_ loves him in each and every lifetime they have together.

And he’s found her again.

Even though he’s the one that’s crowded her space, he tenses under her touch before melting into her. His hands immediately wrap around her waist, pressing her closer into him as both of her hands move to his face, his breath hot in her mouth. She swipes her tongue against his lips, arching into him as he groans and opens his mouth to her.

He’s found her again and she’s in his arms with his heart beating against hers, his mouth moving desperately with hers, like he’s trying to pour every memory back into her.

Kissing her like this is the last time.

One of his hands cups the back of her neck and he tilts his head, kissing her deeper as she tries to grapple with onslaught of images that flash behind her eyes.

A large swaying oak tree. Steaming cups of coffee and tea. Floating white dresses and the vast starry sky above them. An empty train platform. The flash of Luín in the last war that drove them apart.

Luín, before she remembered—

She pulls back with a gasp, her hands fisting in his suit jacket at his shoulders. Her chest heaves against his as she struggles to catch her breath. Sylvain’s hair is disheveled, but he’s not looking at her. He’s keeping his face hidden from her.

It didn’t feel like he was pretending this entire mission, because he wasn’t.

But he’s pretending now, as he looks back toward the open street as his hands drop away from her.

“They’re gone. We should get moving.”

Ingrid feels her stomach flip as they take the long way back to their hotel. Their mission was compromised.

And maybe… they are too.

* * *

They re-combed the room for bugs as soon as they got back, crushing all twenty of them. After a quick wardrobe change, Ingrid relays a coded transmission back to the agency, requesting immediate extraction.

Cornelia’s presence was a bigger threat than their original intel alluded to. There may be a mole back in the capitol.

By the time she’s done, Sylvain is sitting hunched over one of tables, his chess set out. He’s in one of his moods again, Ingrid just knows it. He’s staring hard at the chess board, chin resting on his knuckles until he pointedly moves one of his knights forward.

She rolls her eyes and sinks deeper into the couch. _He’s literally playing himself._

She knows this night didn’t go as planned, but they’ve encountered worse. And if her memory and her hunch serves her right, _she’s_ done worse to him.

_So why won’t he look at her?_

Ingrid tries shifting into his point of view, but all he does is move a pawn from the other side of the board. She glares at the side of his head. “Are you going to do this all night?”

She watches him slide a rook forward.

Huffing, she pushes to her feet and goes into their bedroom, blood pounding in her ears for an entirely different reason. She _knows_ he remembers. She _knows_ that look in his eyes.

She _doesn’t_ know why he won’t talk to her.

Her eyes zero onto the stereo radio and she suddenly feels _very_ reckless. She strides over and switches to the first radio station she can find, cranking the volume to the highest setting. She barely registers the song that begins to play, but she smiles to herself as she starts swaying to the music, hearing the swift rustle of clothing as Sylvain stomps toward her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

His hand reaches for the plug, but Ingrid snatches his arm and swings him into step with her. Her eyes flash to his, taking in the set of his jaw. “Dancing.”

Sylvain’s face remains flat, but he lets her lead him around the bedroom in nonsensical circles. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Ingrid pushes him back. “ _I’m_ sorry, _I’m_ not the one ignoring my partner after our mission got compromised.”

His fists clench at his sides. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

Sylvain reaches for the plug again, but Ingrid cuts in front of him. “Then pray tell, Sylvain, what _are_ you doing?”

He looks caught between wanting to storm away and staying right where he is, hands in hers as she gets him swaying again. “I’m trying to relearn how to be around you.”

Her eyebrows shoot into her hair line. “Trying to— _excuse me?_ ”

His eyes narrow at her and his posture stiffens, hands lifting out of hers. “I’m turning this damn music off—”

Ingrid huffs again and drops into stance. “So, you don’t want to dance, but you do want to wrestle?”

Sylvain turns back to her, eyes wide. “That is _not_ what I said—” Ingrid is already barreling toward him with the intent of taking him _down._

They land in a heap with simultaneous grunts, and Sylvain puts in _far_ more effort than he did during their first spar. He’s rolled her onto her back as they knock into one of the nightstands, but she delivers a swift blow to his solar plexus and flips them over as he reels away from her.

Several more lamps and tables fall victim to their tussle while Ingrid uses her size to grapple with Sylvain’s strength. She twists her legs with his and he crashes down with a yelp. She quickly scrambles on top of him and pushes his shoulders down with both of her hands as he tries to get up. His head lands back on the carpet with a thud and his hands circle her wrists as he halfheartedly tries to shove her off of him.

Her fingers dig into his skin and he groans. “ _Fine._ I surrender.”

Ingrid presses her weight onto him more. “Then _look_ at me.”

Sylvain tenses beneath her, but stubbornly keeps his eyes shut. She thins her lips and gently pulls one of her hands out of his grip, letting her fingers trail along his cheekbone instead. “Sylvain, please. Look at me.”

He sighs, but obeys her, his eyes finding her as she leans down to rest her forehead against his. His hands hesitantly slide down to her waist as she lightly bumps his nose. His voice is barely a whisper as her other hand tangles in his hair. “…Ingrid?”

She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he freezes. “You found me.”

Ingrid pulls back just so, and his hands reflexively tighten on her, trying to keep her as close as possible. She smiles, voice watery. “You found me, Sylvain.

“Ing—”

She leans in again and presses another kiss onto his forehead, his eyes, his nose, his lips. “I love you,” she takes a shuddering breath, “I love you, I’m sorry—”

Sylvain’s hand buries itself in her hair as he pulls her down to crush his lips to hers. She hears each ‘ _I love you_ ’ with every swipe of his tongue, she feels the beat of his heart against her chest as his hands bring her closer and closer. Her lungs burn with her skin as his fingers trail underneath her shirt and trace promises onto her lower back.

She breaks off from him with a strangled gasp and his arms tighten around her, keeping her as close as possible as they catch their breath.

Her vision blurs as Sylvain tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, smiling brighter than she’s ever seen. Her heart throbs in her chest as he brings her lips back to his.

“I promised, didn’t I?”

And Ingrid has always been grateful for Sylvain’s promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and my long weekend is overrrrrrrrrrrrr
> 
> sorry for the wait, but at least we can end happy on this one until the next right :)?


	17. wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though each time, I know I’ll see you again, I always wonder

The kids have said their goodbyes, the grandchildren have shed their tears, and Sylvain and Ingrid wave to the receding carriages as they head back toward Garreg Mach Monastery. The Faerghus winters showing mercy to their traveling family with the snow only just beginning to fall for the first time in several years.

When the last of them disappeared beyond the thick tree line, they retreat back into the warmth of the Gautier estate.

In all his life, Sylvain never could have imagined describing the desolate manor he grew up in a home, nor align it with warmth for that matter. In his childhood, the more time spent away from the territory, the better. But now, even with the house emptied of children’s laughter and rowdy roughhousing, there’s a fire burning in the hearth and Ingrid’s fingers tangled with his, her wedding band knocking against his as she squeezes his hand tighter.

Bundled in their winter coats, they take the long way back to the estate. Snowflakes land in Ingrid’s graying hair and Sylvain smiles over the top of her head. He’d always loved her shining golden blonde, but the streaks of silver remind him exactly how many years they got together this time.

This time when they both remember.

He lightly tugs on the end of her scarf, leaning in close when she turns to him curiously. His breath frosts in the winter air as he whispers, “I love you.”

Ingrid’s eyes crinkle as she pulls him close, her arms winding around his waist as she rests her head against his chest. Against his heartbeat. She sighs contently as he presses a kiss to her hair, her voice a low murmur, “I love you too.”

They spend some time there, standing in the middle of the first snowfall of the year, holding each other, breathing even, heartbeats steady. Sylvain twirls her once, heart warming at the sight of her worn exasperated smile, but indulging him anyway.

_You don’t want to dance, but you do want to wrestle?_

Their moment is cut short with a gust of Gautier wind, causing a shiver to wrack both of their bodies. They lock eyes as it happens, and he smiles cheekily at his wife. “Losing touch in our old age, huh?”

Ingrid halfheartedly pushes at his chest, but pulls him along the pathway back to the house.

Back to their home.

The home they made for themselves.

* * *

Ingrid went to bed hours ago, fatigue from having the whole family over finally catching up to her. Sylvain kissed her cheek sweetly and whispered assurances that he would join her soon. Leaving him with a quick peck on the lips, Ingrid let her fingers linger on his cheek before retreating to their bedroom for the night.

Now, Sylvain wanders the halls of his home alone, mind at peace, letting his feet take him forward whatever which way.

He thinks about the first time, the way he agonized at night during the war. The way his chest tightened whenever he saw Ingrid take to the skies and out of sight. The way his heart would only settle if she was at his back, within reach of his lance.

The way he couldn’t quite remember how to breathe when she crashed into him with the victory horns blaring in the distance.

The way the very first time, she didn’t love him back.

Or rather, couldn’t love him back the way he needed her to. The way she wanted to.

The way she wanted to promise herself to him.

And then the lifetime after that. He doesn’t remember much, but he remembers the soothing lilt of her voice and her gentle hands. He remembers the excitement of merely being around her again. It didn’t matter what he had to go through, anything to see her again.

The coffeeshop threw him for a loop. He knows now that the little shop with its dark blue walls and Ingrid were what tugged him in, the memory of being with the Blue Lions and the love his life.

Sylvain finds himself stopping in front of his study, their wedding portrait hanging above the mantle behind his desk. His heart swells as he takes in the white roses nestled in her hair, and the curve of her lips. He takes a step closer, eyes tracing the dynamic brush strokes that light up her green eyes and the way her hand rests on his cheek, rounded with the smile he had on his face.

Ignatz really knows his way around a brush. In this lifetime and all the ones before it.

He still remembers losing his breath in the gallery, seeing Ingrid stare back at him, even if she didn’t exist.

Even if he didn’t know who she was until that moment, his heart sure did.

And his heart continued to remind him in the lifetimes that followed, tugging him toward her every chance it got. Until he remembered.

The first time he remembered, it slammed into him like a meteor to the chest. His head was spinning with memories, trying to catch up to the scars of his heart. He’d been lost in thought, lost in time.

All he really knew was the beating of his heart, searching for Ingrid. Even if she didn’t remember.

Even if she killed him.

But he’s been lucky.

She remembered in the last, kissing him fiercely on the hotel floor as her tears painted his cheeks, her _‘I’m so sorry’_ s and _‘I love you’_ s lost to his lips on hers as his fingers brushed her hair back. He smiled at her shining green eyes and drew her closer, whispering into her skin, “I promised, didn’t I?”

Because if he can’t find her himself, his heart will.

And she remembers in this one. She remembers and he remembers and he is so, _so_ in love with Ingrid.

Exhaling slowly, Sylvain leaves the study and pulls his cloak tighter around himself, the chill of winter starting to settle into the ancient stone. He shuffles back toward his shared bedroom with Ingrid, blowing into his hands to keep warm.

He cracks the door open and slips in as silently as possible. He watches the slow rise and fall of blankets and feels his chest warm. He washes up in their bathroom quickly and climbs underneath the covers, smiling when Ingrid automatically turns over and slides to his side of the bed as it dips under his weight.

Despite the chill of his body, Ingrid tucks herself against him and settles into the crook of his neck. With her breath washing over his skin, Sylvain brushes her hair back and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. He wraps his arms around her and breathes deep and easy.

As he slips closer to the edge of sleep, heart beating in time with Ingrid’s, he can’t help but lie in wonder how he got so lucky.

He can’t help but wonder if he’ll be as lucky in the next lifetime.

Even if he isn’t, he’ll always find a way back to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fee posted some beautifully painful canonverse sylvgrid art, an ENTIRE COMIC MEANT TO DESTROY ARMIES......
> 
> so i had to aggressively fluff in return to repair the holes in our hearts....

**Author's Note:**

> me: i need to study
> 
> also me 2 hours later: huh
> 
> or: me continually contradicting myself on writing
> 
> will sporadically update whenever I need to keep myself sane from studying!!  
> I'll keep the snippets short since nothing is planned, it'll just be an alteration of au's and in-universe moments bc divine pulse can do anything and you can't tell me otherwise-
> 
> also [nicole_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicole_writes/pseuds/nicole_writes) said i was feeding too much fluff sO...

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [two is company, four's a party](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640052) by [sunnilee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnilee/pseuds/sunnilee)




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